


The Hanged Man

by kimbureh



Series: Breaking Twigs [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Blind Betrayal, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Trust Issues, spoilers for the late game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-06-02 21:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19450072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbureh/pseuds/kimbureh
Summary: The Hanged Man not only references the punishment of a traitor, but is also a symbol of initiation, of the ability to see the world from literallyupside down.That is, from another perspective.---The pairing is Danse/Preston, but focus is the dysfunctional friendship of Danse and Deacon, and them inevitably oscillating between mutual understanding and fundamental mistrust.





	1. The Alley of the Hanged Man

**Author's Note:**

> Recap from part I:  
> After the incidents of Blind Betrayal, Danse tries to find new purpose, but instead is found by the superbly nagging "ice cream vendor" John who keeps pushing him to question his ideals. Just as Danse gets used to his travel companion's eccentricities, "John" is revealed to be Deacon the Railroad agent, spying on him and lying to him like he does with everyone else. As if that wasn't enough, the Brotherhood of Steel launches an attack in which Danse finds himself killing his former brothers and sisters, and Deacon gets severely injured...

Deacon is holding his side, the fabric of his thin shirt partially fused with the burned flesh underneath. 

_ Steak à la me _ , Deacon smiles weakly,  _ I hope it’s still rare inside _ .

Curiously, Danse isn’t looking at that at all, instead he’s staring over Deacon’s shoulder? How odd.

“Don’t move, I got this.” Danse jumps out of his power armor in no time.

_ Why is there blood? And why--  _ Deacon turns his head to the side, but has his view blocked by something right in front of his face.  _ Oh _ . Danse hadn't been looking behind him, but rather at that sharp piece of shrapnel that found a cozy new home in Deacon’s shoulder, right where the collarbone connects to the shoulder joint.

“Fuck.” Deacon weakly hisses a curse while he senses Danse crouching next to him, doing  _ something _ \-- whatever it is, he cannot tell-- “I, uh, need a little…” his eyelids are so heavy, that’s not a good sign, he gotta--  _ Keep it together, Deacon _ . He recounts several situations that have been worse than this, way worse.  _ You got this.  _ The only reasonable thing to do now is-- _ blackout _ .

-

Before Deacon wakes again, he senses the presence of someone familiar, someone caring-- Danse?-- he’s in good hands, he knows that immediately. Wow, when was the last time he felt cared for like this? Whatever his friend Paladin did-- his pal Friendadin-- it did not kill him. Yeah, he should thank him as soon as--

He opens his eyes to see Carrington’s pissed visage while preparing a needle.

“Now, that’s a disappointment.” Deacon’s voice is coarse and he finds himself weaker than expected.

Carrington leans over, hurrying to administer whatever cocktail he has cooked up in that syringe. “I could say the same to you. You look awful.”

“At least I usually don’t. Not like a certain wanna-be doctor who’s just--” Deacon tries to sit up, but with both his right shoulder and his side injured, it is bound to fail. “Dammit. Just don’t--”, he groans from exhaustion, “Just don’t test any weird stuff on me, Stanley.”

“What the heck, Deacon. I’m not a crazed Institute scientist.”

“True. You lack the degree-- what the fuck!” Deacon flinches as Carrington jabs his arm with the needle.

“Good. Motor functions still working. I prescribe bed rest and less mocking of the doctor. Hell. Deacon. We lost HQ. Glory is--”

Deacon’s eyes fly open, pain or not, he grabs Carrington. “What about Glory??”

“Yeah, what about me?”

That voice-- “Glory!” Deacon calls out relieved and shoots Carrington an accusing look, mouthing a quick  _ fuck you _ before turning to her.

“So. How fucked are we?”

-

_ Fucked, oh so very fuckidy fuck fucked. _

Whatever painkillers Carrington was pumping into Deacon’s bloodstream, they sucked. No fun trip at all.

HQ -- raided.

All their collected data -- gone.

Every piece of their high tech equipment -- destroyed.

Both tunnels to HQ collapsed, burying everything under debris, which means it’s also out of reach for the Brotherhood. Glory, Dez and Drummer Boy all only sustained some minor injuries and are already up and running. PAM is malfunctioning in the corner, Tinker Tom is trying to make her stop predict the weather. Agents are busy to frantically secure the place as well as can be done without drawing too much attention. The feeling of exposure is crushing without tons of earth and a vaulted cellar above their heads-- Hangman’s Alley may be cramped between tall buildings, but it’s still out in the open, vulnerable.

Fortunately, so far their losses in agents are quite small, all thanks to--

“Wanderer!”

Deacon tries to sit up again as he sees Nora approach. “You really  _ do _ have your fingers in every single honey pot of the Commonwealth. Thank god for that!”

“Easy there, Deacon. You lost a lot of blood.” Nora looks tired and nervous, dark bags under her eyes, her smile weak and phony. She flops down on the floor next to Deacon’s mattress. “I’m glad I could deliver a warning call to the Castle’s radio station in time. I just wish I could have relayed to HQ directly, but you never know if the Institute isn’t keeping tabs on you…”

“Don’t you worry about a thing. Your heads up saved all our asses. Are  _ you _ alright, boss?”

She hums, her eyes empty. “Yeah. I’m just tired. I relayed outside of Old North Church and caught an ambushing Brotherhood squad by surprise-- they were waiting to shoot anybody who’d try to flee. Caught a pretty little splinter just like you.” She lifts her bandaged hand and nods at his shoulder. “Listen, I can’t stay long. And you can’t either, for that matter.” And with that, her gaze is focused again, determination and concern welling through. “Listen, I need to keep a low profile for a while. Tell Danse I’m sorry for just disappearing...”

“Yeah. He’s not my biggest fan right now. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Deacon.” She gets up and checks her weapon holsters in a smooth and practiced motion.

“Tell me, how did you get wind of the Bros?”

“Well, Maxson gave away nothing. So much for winning back the Brotherhood’s trust...” Nora huffs flatly in disdain. “It was Z1 who tipped me off. One of his friends overheard something in the SRB. The Institute must have intercepted a message.”

Deacon nods mechanically, his mind filled with calculations of possible outcomes and several scenarios about the meaning of this security breach.

  
  


\---

  
  


No.

No, no, no, no, no.

This is all wrong, how could he ever--

It’s a shame, an utter shame.

_ Betrayal _ . 

They-- He won, yes.

But there is nothing glorious about this victory.

It’s a defeat.

  
  
  


“Quite the battle, huh?” It’s Preston.

Without a word, Danse turns to him and hugs him tightly-- they’re alone, he can allow his mask to slip, for now, only a moment, just as long as Preston is willing to embrace him-- and like that, the Minuteman holds him, both gentle and unmoving like a rock in rough sea.

“I never thought I would--” Danse stammers in the crook of Preston’s neck, his breath irregular.

“...I know.” Preston whispers. “It hurts. Even if your own people want to see you dead.”

There’s some rustling behind them, and a Railroad agent passes the shop on patrol. Danse releases Preston from his arms, his eyes softly thanking him before he composes himself fully again. He awkwardly gestures at the banged up power armor next to him. Most parts of the outer layer are busted or missing, only a mere distorted frame still standing, the joints creaky and barely moving. “I am sorry it got completely busted...” Danse trails off.

“Are you kidding me? It served its purpose by protecting you.” A reassuring squeeze on Danse’s arm, well meant, but futile.

If Nora had talked to Preston before she left, is what Danse wants to know. Her interference today as a Brotherhood Paladin might compromise her position, and even worse, might weigh on her personally.

“She was outside, with me. Dealing with the rearguard.” Preston explains they were making sure there were no survivors on the Brotherhood side.

Danse’s features darken significantly, not bearing to look in the other man’s face. “We should go. This place is not safe.”

“You go ahead. I have-- unexpected new duties to deal with.” Preston explains, by explaining nothing, chewing his lip, averting his eyes. Something other than the battle is on his mind. 

“Before she left, Nora said-- she made me General.”

A confusing piece of new information, positive in nature, yes, cause for celebration under different circumstances, but now, coming out of nowhere.

“Congratulations, General.” Danse pats Preston’s shoulder, trying his best to look as proud as he is, only his emotions still shadowed by the bloodspilling before. “You will be a great General. I have no doubts about that. Nora made a wise decision to appoint you.”

Preston smiles a tense smile, wanting to believe these words, wanting to live up to the expectations put on him by the friends whose opinion he respects. It’s a necessary step, objectively. Nora abandoning her title means to strengthen her position within the Brotherhood. “Yeah.” He sighs. “Those are some large footsteps to follow in-- Nora having built up the Minutemen from basically nothing and all.”

“And you will continue on that course in your way. Don’t underestimate your capabilities.”

There is commotion in the hut up the stairs, glass clattering, Carrington raising his voice, then weak but decisive backtalk-- Deacon?

“A small radio emitter in his suit would have been enough for the Brotherhood to track us down there!” 

“Tom didn’t read any weird radio signs.”

“That Paladin you brought almost wiped us out!”

“He helped save what’s left of us.”

Danse freezes, Preston staring at him-- before he can react, the Paladin storms off, ire in his eyes. He’s not thinking anymore, he’s all action-- A hard punch that would hit Carrington right in the mouth if not Glory was there to keep Danse back, his fist scraping the doctor’s face.

“I murdered fine Brotherhood soldiers today!” The Paladin spews uncontrollably, “This is a tragedy for all of humanity!”

Carrington, seeing that Danse is now restrained by both Glory and Preston, recovers quickly. “Where do your allegiances lay then, Paladin! If you’re so eager to spare their lives, how can we even trust you!”

“They would kill him, you absolute turd!” Deacon tries to speak up against Carrington, his voice weak and muffled.

“I don’t care if you trust me!” Danse shouts. “But I can’t go back! Ever! Because I’m a Synth! If you insist to be on my list of enemies, so be it! It’s not like I care how long it is!” By now the whole camp is staring at them, Danse forcefully shakes off any hands holding him back and storms off.

“Fuck you, Carrington, seriously.” Deacon hisses, trying to get up and go after Danse, Glory effortlessly shoves him back to the mattress. “You already did enough damage for one day.”

-

The morning air is unusually chilly, some fog caught in the narrow alleys between the high storeyed houses. The distinct silence of recent bloodshed in the air. Occasionally, the creaking sound of centuries old metal staircases contracting in the cold, no sign of any life around. 

“You should have gone with the others.”

Deacon’s voice cuts through like a knife despite it being a mere whisper. 

“Nonsense. No friend gets left behind. Not even trouble like you.”

Deacon smiles at Preston’s answer, tucked in layers of rags to keep him warm before inevitably the unrelenting sun will come out again and burn everything. Across from him on another mattress sits the Minuteman, his duster buttoned up to the top, his laser musket as always by his side.

“Thanks,  _ General _ .” Deacon teases him. “Now there is nothing anymore between you and your inevitable power trip.”

Preston chuckles weakly. “Hey. You don’t taunt the guy who stays back to guard the injured smartass.”

“Aw. Thanks for babysitting, mom. Let’s just hope no steel bros see us huddling like this, that’d be totally embarrassing to be caught with the new Minutemen General.”

“You take it badly?”

“Nah. It’s the smart move, really. It was too good to last, having a Railroad agent also be the top dog Minuteman. We’ll miss your support. Radio Fiddle saved all our damn asses.” Deacon shuffles a little to readjust the slipped blankets, flinching as he tries to cover up his injured shoulder. A thick pressure bandage, luckily not bleeding through anymore. “I have to admit, it was oddly spirit-soothing to know the Minutemen would have our back if shit hit the fan. So this--”, he groans again before settling in the least uncomfortable position, “this is you saying goodbye to the Railroad?”

“For now.” Preston admits. “Our priority is to get on the Brotherhood’s good side.”

“Good luck with that. Just don’t adapt to them too well, do me that personal favor, will ya.”

“Nora is a Brotherhood Paladin and was our General both at once, did you question her like this?”

“Well, she passed on the loreats, just like that. Would you ever do that,  _ Oh General _ ?”

Preston huffs. “I just got the honors, I’m not thinking about passing them on yet, but-- it’s not like I ever sought out this position.” He looks down, fidgeting on his gloves. “On the contrary. I don’t think I am quite the person for the job.” 

“Maybe that’s exactly what makes you the right person for the job.”

Preston falls silent. Calling the shots, making decisions-- last time he was in a position like this, it was for sheer survival, and many people did not make it. “It’s-- it’s a lot of responsibility.” He finally says.

“Sure is. Just don’t introduce a pledge on some old book or dishrag, even a Minutemen theme song-- gosh I hate anthems.”

Preston chuckles. “I’ll try my very best to resist that temptation.”

  
  


\---

  
  


There is no time, there just never is time these days--

Nora walks westwards, headed to Diamond city, picking up yet another report at mayor McDonough’s for the Institute. Running errands for the enemy, collecting intel for the enemy, locating and resetting synths for the enemy-- it’s necessary to play this game in order to defeat them, she tries to convince herself.

If Shaun-- her son-- is anything like herself or Nate, he’s stubborn. So goddamn stubborn. He will never be swayed or persuaded, never--

She clenches her fists and bites the inside of her cheeks.

There’s no time for this. No time for doubts. No time to talk to her friends, support them, comfort them when they need it-- She saw Danse back in the alley of the Hanged Man, looking lost and abandoned after he committed the worst atrocities imaginable against his former brothers and sisters. And yet, she left him there. Chose not to help him.

She barely had the time to talk to Preston-- His appointment, rather unceremonial.

Her neck feels tense as she walks through the vast green gates of the city.  _ Protected by the Great Green Wall _ . That’s their slogan. Little do they know that their worst nightmare is already ruling the city from within. But Nora doesn’t tell them. Doesn’t tell Piper or Nick, not even Deacon that the mayor has long been replaced by an Institute synth.  _ It’s to protect them _ , she tells herself. If things go according to plan, there won’t be an Institute for much longer.

She takes the elevator up to the platform where the mayor resides, collects the report for Ayo. McDonough smiling and joking about their ‘mutual friends’ as always, displaying the power leant to him by mercy of the Institute, blah blah, it’s already routine. Playing this game has become a routine. Leaving behind and lying to friends has become a routine.

She rummages in her homeplate’s pantry for anything to drink. Her mouth feels dry, and no amount of purified water nor sugary nuka cola can take away that stale taste in her mouth. 

Maybe, just maybe, she’s on the wrong side of things. Nora is good at what she’s doing, and the Institute uses her to do their dirty work for them-- In Libertalia she used a recall code for the first time, a synth named Gabriel. B5-92 went limp and lifeless the moment she finished speaking the code. Capturing synths in order to save synths-- She frowns. Before she can dwell on that thought any longer, there is a bright blue flash in the middle of the room. 

“Ma’am. New orders from the SRB.”

“Sure.” Nora nods. “What is it, X6?”


	2. The Static & Dynamic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon needs a How To Friend tutorial

This is boring.

So  _ incredibly _ boring.

Sitting around all day, huddled up inside all day, doing nothing.

Deacon loves it, abso-fricken-lutely adores it.

It comes with the teeny tiny uneasy feeling of being rendered completely helpless. His side and shoulder are in pain, his trigger arm useless. And nobody to complain to. Nora and Preston both didn’t return to Sanctuary, each on their on mission.

Deacon lounges on the couch, his right arm resting in a sling, a nuka cola in his other hand. Out there in the Commonwealth, the Railroad is hastily trying to re-establish itself, in desperate need of quality intel all the while their top recon agent is forced to stay benched at this time of crisis.Can’t go undercover with that injury, let alone defend himself in case of emergency. 

Sanctuary is nice. The perfect balance between disorganized wasteland rubble and the comforts of civilization. Deacon lets his head fall on the backrest of the couch and rolls his head to the side, left and right, feeling the skin and muscle tuck on the healing wound in his shoulder. That black piece of metal Carrington pulled out of him turned out to be a shrapnel of busted Minutemen power armor. Funny, he thinks. Minutemen armor worn by a former Brotherhood Paladin ending up in Railroad’s finest shoulder. He chuckles stupidly.

The old computer terminal installed in the living room reflects his image back at him. He looks pathetic.  _ Useless _ . Living the easy life while the rest of the Railroad crawls hiding in the dirt. His only job now is trying to make himself useful with some paperwork. Deacon has the most expansive knowledge on the internal Railroad data, and Desdemona has him archive every kernel of information from the lost mainframe. Which leaves him now to spend his days one-handedly typing down the Railroad’s chronicles. Hiding a few easter eggs here and there-- just for ornament, of course.

A knock on the door.

_ Who the heck _ . He doesn’t even have a gun nearby-- a knife, does he have knife? Perhaps the bottle, he could--

_ Keep calm _ , he reminds himself,  _ the body snatchers wouldn’t knock so politely on your front door _ .

“Come on in.”

The door swings open and a bulky silhouette appears in the frame.

“Hello, John.”

“Oh” it escapes him, “long time no see.”

Now, this is unexpected. Without any further word, Paladin Danse enters the room-- who knows where he rove about after he stormed out of Hangman’s Alley weeks ago-- and sits down on the only chair in the room except for the couch Deacon is lounging on, right in front of the terminal.

Deacon follows Danse’s motion from behind his sunglasses. The Paladin doesn’t seem to be in his best shape, shoulders slouched, the posture missing the usual sharpness of a soldier. By now Deacon is blatantly gazing at him. Neither of them speaks another word for moments that feel like an eternity. Danse must be here because he wants something, from Deacon of all people, and he obviously doesn’t like that fact all too much.  _ Let’s play along with it _ .

“Hey, since you’re already sitting there-- ready to type?” Deacon nods at the terminal.

Short hesitation, then a sharp hum in response.  _ He really does want something _ .

With that, Deacon starts casually narrating event after event, all of the recent ops they ran together, Ticonderoga, the first op Danse ran for the Railroad without knowing, and all the recon missions they did together, then finally catching up to the recent past. “The asset was brought to HQ without being given any information beforehand. A crude and regrettable misjudgement of the agent in question. Not surprisingly, reception was poor on both sides. Discouraging him from joining posed an immeasurable loss for the Railroad.” Deacon stops to clear his throat.. “Further, the Brotherhood knocked on our doors. With guns. We fled, the Minutemen cancelled their support, and we just continue to survive.  _ Le Fin _ .”

The sound of irregular rushes of letters typed on a keyboard, then silence. A gaze on Deacon’s injured arm wanders further up to finally linger on dark sunglasses. Danse’s expression non-descript even to Deacon. 

_ Huh. Looks like you learned something about concealing your emotions _ .

“You’re aware of course I speak in code ‘cause nobody is supposed to know these facts.” Deacon explains with his ever-present cocky poker face.

Danse remains silent, but now it’s like his face comes back to life. It seems like he’s carefully weighing his next words-- his expression somewhere between a tense nervousness and sadness.

“Did the Railroad wipe my memory?” The question falls like lead to the ground. “Did they construct my memories?”

“I don’t know.” Deacon states flatly. “And even if knew, I wouldn’t tell you. The whole point of a wipe.”

Danse purses his lips, hands restlessly folding and unfolding in his lap. “You know what hurt most about you blind siding me, John?” There it is again, his mock name, as if to remind the both of them that it all began with a lie. “You never trusted me. You never intended to trust me. After all we’ve... shared, you set me up to prove to yourself I could not be trusted.”

Deacon cocks his head, all smart and aloof. “After we’ve shared what? A cuddle or two?”

Danse’s eyes narrow and he straightens his pose in defense.  _ Oh _ .  _ That hit _ .

“Do you distrust me because I’m a synth?”

Deacon jerks up. “Now hold on a second,” his voice a pitch higher than intended, “Don’t confuse my issues with yours. I play fucked up games with everyone, I just do. That has nothing to do with you.”

Danse stares back at him, visibly fighting to contain his emotions. He jumps up from his seat, unsure what to do or where to go, he looks like a trapped animal.

“I think you should leave.” Deacon finally says. A moment of stillness, then Danse is on his way to the door, when Deacon speaks again, urgency in his voice. “You’re staying in Sanctuary though, right?” The Paladin grunts in reply and is gone.

-

Evening comes, and so does communal dinner. Deacon stays back, watching, looming like a shadow.  _ Rather like the clumsiest spy ever _ . A bowl of grub balanced on his knees, he cowers in his quarters, eyes on the lively interactions at the campfire.

Danse looks tired, worn. Must have been through a lot. Where has he been, what has he done since  _ then _ ? Deacon sure is out of the loop. It feels uncomfortable not to know these things, it’s against his whole being to not have the informational upper hand for once. He reaches for a pack of cigarettes he isn’t even in the habit of carrying when he’s not undercover. Feels a bit like on a stake out though.

Danse sits with the other settlers, Sturges, the Longs, that old weird lady-- Even though he’s not much interacting, Danse looks like he’s part of the group. Like he belongs here. Has a right to be here. 

-

During the night, the sharp stinging pain in Deacon’s shoulder is keeping him awake, every position he’s trying to sleep in feels more uncomfortable than the one before. Tossing and turning, his eyes fall on the dose of Med-X resting on his nightstand.

_ Relax. It’s just pain. It’s not killing you. _

He feels for his laser shot wound on his side. It’s seeping through _. _

_...Probably _ .

With a groan he gets up and reaches for the syringe, but grabs his sunglasses instead. He has seen some disinfectant in the shared supply somewhere, he’ll quickly slip out and get it, like the swift nimble spy that he his-- he takes a step and stumbles over his sniper rifle like a green rookie, catching his fall against the wall with his injured side.  _ Forgodssake _ .  _ You used to be sly, you clumsy mutie _ . He squeezes in his boots and is out the door.

Outside, he realizes there’s light in the shop, could that be him--?

“Oh. Hi Sturges. Some nocturnal tinkering?”

“Hey Deacon. Are you alright? You look a little bit weak on them legs, and- you know- hella agonized?

“Yeeah. I was on my way to raid your stash.”

“Hang in there, fella. I’m gonna grab you some painkillers.” He pulls out a patio chair and offers it to Deacon who gladly accepts. 

It’s only then that Deacon realizes there’s another person with him in the shop. In a darker corner crouched down behind a suit of power armor is Danse working on something.

“Hey there, greasemonkey.” Deacon weakly croaks, completely lacking the charm he intended to convey.

Danse briefly looks up but doesn’t bother with an answer. Shuffling in the seat to see better, Deacon watches him as he dissembles part by part with skillful motions, seeming so practiced like he didn’t even need to look. Screws, bolts, wiring, reusables and scrap. Some are neatly assorted, some are thrown on a pile of rubble; chaos and order right next to each other.

“You have changed, Paladin.”

Deacon’s quiet voice travels far in the still night.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I envy you.”

Danse stops tinkering around, staring at the collected parts on the ground. When he finally looks up, Deacon is gone.

-

The next day, Deacon is, again, inside the house, arduously typing notes. From time to time he sneaks out to skulk around Danse every so often, always keeping his distance, but still close enough to be noticed by the other man. 

In the evening, Deacon catches him alone by the campfire. Reluctantly, Danse studies him from the corner of his eyes as Deacon sits down.

“Whatcha looking at, big boy?”

Danse averts his eyes and focuses on fuelling the fire. “Tell me, John. Do you envy synths?” 

“No, not really.” Deacon pokes the embers with a stick, watching sparks arise, the fire separating the two. “There’s only one thing I envy synths for-- A complete memory wipe. But that’s not for folks like me.”  _ Not for humans, and definitely not for wasteland scum like me. _

Danse snorts. “It’s not like the option to forget makes up for everything else.”

“I know. It’s just-- the possibility is tempting, don’t you think?”

Danse’s glance is piercing. “It would be a lie.”

“Yeah. Tempting.”

Danse shakes his head. “I don’t understand you, at all, John.”

“Welcome to the club. We have fancy lads and sunglasses.”

“Is everything a joke to you?”

“Nights have been pretty cold without you.”

“It’s summer, John.”

“Still.”


	3. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon discovers new fears, Danse learns to keep secrets

“C’mooon, take me. It’ll be great-- Just two cowboys riding into the sunset.”

“Why on earth would I want that!” Danse sounds more impatient than annoyed. Deacon marks that down as a win.

“Cuz I’m a riot? And also very charming? Pretty please?”  _ What the heck, Deacon _ .

“Why are you so eager to come on that mission with me?” A group of Minutemen came passing through earlier that day with a message from their new General.

“Can’t let Goodneighbor chew on Brotherhood’s finest.”  _ Try being less of a jackass and he’ll probably take you _ .

Danse snorts utterly unamused. “You should worry about yourself.” Danse nods at Deacon’s bandaged shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna lie. I’ll need you as my bodyguard. Buuut I needed to go see a doctor in the city anyway, and you won’t send me out there all by myself? Helpless? Exposed to Bloodbugs and the evil sunlight?” 

“You’re a liability.” And with that, Danse walks past.

_ Good old self-sabotage _ .

“Seriously?” Deacon calls. “You leave me here when I need medical attention? You’re so cruel.” No response.  _ Dammit _ . The weeks since Hangman’s Alley haven’t been exactly a bundle of joy. Deacon rubs his tense neck, purposely tugging on the ruptured muscle fibres that desperately try to cling to his collarbone.

He still has Med-X stashed away in his drawer, but he won't use it. Hates the way it fogs his mind, makes him sleepy. Or whatever bullshit excuse he’s telling himself today.

He hasn’t slept in weeks.

“Paladin.” It’s a pathetic whimper as he walks over. Against all his instincts, Deacon reaches out to touch Danse’s arm. “Paladin.” He repeats when the other man finally turns to look at him. “If I have to sit around any longer feeling useless I’ll have to shoot myself left-handed. And I’ll probably miss, goddamnit.”

Danse’s eyes grow soft like the big brown puppy eyes they are supposed to be. “Alright. I’ll take you.” He says, “go get your things.”

-

The mission is to retrieve a set of power armor in Goodneighbor. With Deacon’s injuries, it's on Danse to carry most of their basic necessities. 

“Here. You should take this.” Danse hands him a slim 10mm pistol.

“Hey, um, that's nice and all, but you see this? That sling I store my lazy ass trigger arm in?”

“You might need it.” Danse urges the pistol onto Deacon, “You can’t go unarmed.” He says more to himself than Deacon.

\---

They head out at dusk to travel in the coming darkness, leaving an appropriate distance between them and the Cambridge area. It’s almost midnight when they arrive at Bunker Hill, the gates closed, everything quiet. Some carefully hushed words from Deacon to a night guard, and the side entrance opens silently. Travelling with an agent has its perks. 

They swing by Savoldi’s for a room. Small, rancid, single mattress. Danse wordlessly settles in for the night while Deacon sits on the crooked wooden bench watching him, looking oddly unsure of himself. “Hey, I know this is awkward,” Deacon admits, “just take the mattress, I’ll be alright sleeping on the floor.” The spy is trying to sound as casual as possible, but Danse can see how worn out he is from the journey.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Our personal differences are not relevant right now. There is enough room to share the mattress like we used to.” Danse factually states and takes a swig from a can of purified water, offering the rest to Deacon.

“That’s unexpected.” Deacon replies as he accepts the water, “I thought you’d be the type to hold grudges.”

“Don’t confuse me prioritizing the mission with friendship. We need to be rested.”

Danse sees Deacon bite his lip as if to hold back any sassy commentary. Good. Maybe he finally learned something about boundaries.

They settle in on the narrow mattress, doze off and on, until Danse notices Deacon clumsily get up and leave the room. It’s still dark, but Danse feels wide awake now. From outside, the faint smell of tobacco wells through the flimsy wall. He finds Deacon sit outside smoking on the small open doorway that connects their room upstairs with the ground level. Even now he’s wearing sunglasses.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I always smoke undercover.”

“Never seen it. Otherwise I would have objected to the smell.”

“Bullshit, man. You just forgot that I smoke.” Deacon’s answer comes out harsher than he seemingly intended to, in any case, his posture sinks in after that remark as if to take back the rude tone.

Danse sits down next to him, taking in the town’s scenery in the dim starry light, the obelisk rising tall on the far end of the settlement. Quiet.

There is something Danse wanted to ask for a while now. He looks around, nobody else seems to be awake at this late of time, only two guards patrolling far away near the monument. “Can you get me in contact with… your friends again?”

“Where have you been the past weeks?”

“It doesn’t matter. Can you or can you not?”

“I could. Maybe. Tell me where you’ve been. What you’ve done.”

“Does that mean you won’t?”

“Told you the price, didn’t I.”

Danse scoffs. “I see. You are still just out collecting intel.” Danse says bitterly and returns inside.

-

The next day Danse is at Savoldi’s bar, having a small breakfast while he waits for Deacon to return from the doctor.

Should he pay the price the Railroad agent demanded? Danse’s heart grows heavy thinking about the grind of the past weeks-- no, there is no need to voluntarily feed Deacon more information than necessary. On the other hand, the longer he waits the greater the chances for the Railroad to refuse him any support. Deacon is suspicious of him anyway-- and it hurts to be mistrusted, even if it’s by a liar like John.

There is a Brotherhood trading party entering the settlement at the main gate. Danse finishes up and puts on his flight helmet. Deception sure isn’t his forte, but whether he likes it or not, he needs to get used to it. Perhaps it could be a skill that gets him from Deacon what he wants--  _ Disgusting _ . 

He meets Deacon at the doctor’s just as she’s finishing up her exam. No doubt Deacon saw the soldiers at the market too, quickly nodding, paying up, and in no time they are out the city.

“What did she say?” Danse feels obliged to ask.

“That I’ll grow a third arm out of my shoulder.”

\---

“Didn’t expect you back so soon, Brotherhood.” Hancock smirks, thoroughly delighted, whereas Danse looks positively uncomfortable.

_ Oh this is hilarious _ , Deacon internally cheers.

“Don’t forget about our little agreement.” The ghoul, in fashionable frock coat and tricorn hat, is oozing the most magnificent complacency.

“I am a man of my word, Hancock.” The Paladin dryly replies.

Deacon is frantically looking back and forth between the two, trying to put together this glorious, glorious puzzle that is presented before his prying eyes. “You two met? And Paladin owes the ol’ mayor a favor? Excuse me while I go get some popcorn.” He chirps, and earns a displeased look from one, and an amused chuckle from the other. “Hancock, I think I need to invite you to some high octane booze and a little jet party tonight.” 

“Now, would you look at that.” Hancock folds his arms. “The moment I got a little secret you’re not in, we’re suddenly chem buddies. Forget it.”

“You’ve got tons of secrets I’m not in, Hancock. Not sure I wanna know.”

“You don’t. Otherwise I’d feel obliged to litter the streets with your remains.”

“Wouldn’t wanna sully Goodneighbor’s neat tidy streets with little old me.” 

“Exactly. Now, if you excuse me, I’ve got mayoral duties to attend to. I’ll send over Fahrenheit tomorrow to take you to my personal stash.”

_ Tomorrow? _

“Feel free to stay in Old State House until then.” And with that, Hancock leaves behind an uncomfortable Paladin and a not-so-sly Railroad agent; it’s barely noon. That’s a lot time to kill.

“So-- Do you play cards?” Deacon asks in a fake cheer, the prospect of loitering in Goodneighbor with a debilitating injury and his repeated lack of sweet talking people into giving away information makes him feel sick to the stomach. That, or the all encompassing pain that exudes from his shoulder which made him skip breakfast.

Danse only grunts in disapproval and leaves in angry fast paces, whereas Deacon has to exert himself in order to keep up, the growing heat of the day weakening his already bad shape even further. They walk walk walk, until Danse stops and Deacon almost runs into him. “You stay here and rest.” It’s Danse’s  _ Paladin _ voice, dishing out commands. “Tomorrow you need to be in better condition than.  _ This _ .” He gestures at Deacon’s  _ everything _ . And gosh, he must look pathetic because now Danse’s features soften, and he changes his body language just the tiniest bit to appear less imposing. “You should try to get some sleep.” He adds, his words sounding almost gentle.

“I, uh, would prefer not to lie around in Hancock’s little center of power, all helpless and such.” It’s a good strategy to appeal at Danse’s pity, but hell if Deacon would get any shut eye around here, in his condition, almost literally unarmed. That pain in his body is only fuel to his paranoia. No, not paranoia. His professional experience, his instincts are telling him that--

“Don’t you have friends in the Memory Den?”

Oh, yeah, shit, he totally forgot about that. Damn sleep deprivation making his brain go all stupid. “Probably not the wisest decision, going there-- they think our little club is down dead, and we wanna keep it that way a lil longer till we know the Brotherhood’s off our tail--”  _ Fuck, Deacon, you’re here to collect data, not to tell stories-- _

Before he can finish berating himself, he feels light as if on clouds, sparkling stars closing in from all around, then, a calm darkness. 

-

When Deacon wakes again, he feels peaceful and relaxed. Cared for. Protected.

_ Déjà vu _ .

He opens his eyes, and first thing he notices is missing his sunglasses-- where- where are they-- ah, there, someone hands them to him, he tries to put them on, failing.

“Hold on, I’ll do this.”

So calming, that deep soft timbre like ground coffee beans-- 

Thank you, is what Deacon wants to reply, but only a weak croak finds its way out of his throat. He feels light headed, comfortably sleepy, and so so cozy.

“Did you drug me…?”

“I administered a standard dose of painkillers since you seemed to suffer.”

Slowly, Deacon begins to take in his surroundings; a large room, several pieces of furniture, the walls holey and shabby. Hotel Rexford? Danse is sitting in an antique wing chair, a book in his hands, looking like Lord Brotherhood himself, residing in his quaint old abode for leisurely summer reading.

“That’s my book.” Deacon unnecessarily points out.

“Just for waiting until you wake up. I’m sorry for the intrusion-”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s- it certainly helped pass the time. Do you want water?”

“Alexei, my main man, develops a fixation for the roulette over winning  _ monetas _ to woo his number one girl, and, not to spoil, but, when he’s finally given a choice, he favors the thrill of the turntables over the Schlangenberg-temptress-- which is actually the best case scenario for him if you ask me. She finally ends up with a stale English guy.”

Danse slowly lifts an eyebrow. He gets up from his seat to sit at the edge of the bed, one hand reaches for Deacon’s forehead, the other for his own. A faint glimmer of feeling cornered--

“What? Am I making that little sense that you check for a fever?” Deacon nervously chuckles.

“I don’t even understand half of the words you just said.” He reaches for a medical kit on the nightstand. “Your bandages need changing. That doctor in Bunker Hill did a poor job, the laser shot wound is poorly dressed and seeping through.”

“Oh I didn’t let her look at that.”

“What?” Danse looks puzzled. “Then why did you want to see a doctor?”

“Cuz Carrington is an asshole and I like to speak to a _ real _ medical professional sometimes--”

Without a word, Danse unbuttons Deacon’s shirt.

“Looks like I’m losing the shirt off my back already, and I didn’t even gamble.”

“As I said, your wounds need medical attention. Now that you’re awake, they should be tended to.”

Deacon cracks a dirty joke about Danse undressing him, the Paladin scolds him, sincerely scandalized, reminds him that it’s ‘ _ just the shirt, John, don’t exaggerate _ ’, and then it hits Deacon-- The realization about how dependent on the Paladin he is right now, and that it was entirely himself who fabricated this situation. Danse is so awfully close throughout the whole procedure; bent over, his hands gently working on Deacon’s body. From this angle, his frame seems so broad and bulky, a soldier through and through, strong looking hands, and for a split second, Deacon wonders if these hands could kill him with a snap-- 

“Your recovery is slow. The laser burn shouldn’t be open anymore, it’s been weeks. The shoulder looks even worse.”

“Oh no doc, am I gonna die?”

Danse frowns, ignoring Deacon’s attempts to turn the situation into a joke.

Yeah, jokes. He plays the casual type, but internally Deacon is mapping an escape route out of the room, out of the city-- but Danse sits so close, blocks his path, blocks any coherent thought-- His heartbeat accelerates as the claustrophobic panic of feeling trapped sets in--

“Fucking hell, Danse.” Deacon blurts out. “You don’t just give a former drug addict pain meds.” Deacon lets out a theatrical sigh, rubbing his temple. “You could be pushing me down a really bad spiral right now cause I’m allergic to some of the stuff.”  _ Yes good _ . He groans and lets himself flop into the cushion, the pain of the impact grounding him.

_ A few more lies and things will be under control again _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: btw, Deacon's book Danse is reading is Dostoevsky's Gambler


	4. Diamond City Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse learns something about himself and things get out of hand in the worst possible ways

Before them is, or rather was, something that once resembled a power armor. More specifically, that exact ‘full set’ of power armor that Hancock agreed on high-heartedly donating to the Minutemen, and which Danse was supposed to acquire in a quick mission, is a wild mixture of T-51 model pieces and raider armor. Where the alloy isn’t covered in rust blooms, large holes are gaping or are covered up with actual chicken wire. It’s not fit for a trip to the Glowing Sea, that much is abundantly obvious.

“You and your manly nimble hands can fix it in a heartbeat, right?” Deacon teases, laughing at the absurdly damaged suit. They need material and tools to repair the suit, and the closest place that offers both is Diamond City, the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth. Lots of of people pass through there, friends and foes alike, but Preston counts on Danse doing his job, and it if that means taking the risk of entering Diamond City, he’s going to do it.

They manage to make the power armor frame work long enough to take the hike down to the city’s market, but not a single step further. Deacon leisurely flops down on a bench as if it was him who had done all the hard work. “Good job. Now what?” 

“Nora owns some property near the market. She said we are free to use it during emergencies.”

“Yeah great.” Sunglasses are scanning the vicinity. “The key to it usually has everybody’s favorite reporter, or, alternatively, we just break in. In any case, I’m not up for an interview with  _ her _ .”

Danse shakes his head at the appalling proposition of lock picking and leaves Deacon behind to enter the Publick Occurrences. Turns out, Piper is not in town, currently out investigating more rumors about the city’s mayor McDonough supposedly being a synth imposter. Her little sister however tells the  _ weird stranger _ to try Nick Valentine’s detective agency.

“Then go and get the key from Nick, I’m not moving from this nice comfy park bench.” Deacon says after Danse returned with the news.

“She didn’t say Valentine has a key though.”

“He has one.”

Danse looks at him, skeptical. “If you knew, why didn’t you say so right away?”

“You haven’t met Nick, right? Wanted to spare you the existential crisis, but off you go.”

“He’s a gen2 synth. What do you think I’m gonna do? Open fire on him?” A dark frown crosses his face.

“Whoa there.” Deacon lifts a hand in defense, “I was just looking out for you- Nevermind. Just go get the keys and get us off the streets. Please.”

  
  


\---

  
  


“Now look who’s here.” 

Not long after Danse disappears, there’s a rather cocky voice behind Deacon. Even though he can’t turn his head, he’d recognize that tone anywhere.

“What’s up? Still killing people for money?”

“I don’t know... Still pretending to be anyone else but yourself?”

MacCready walks around to the bench. With the tension between them almost palpable, they stare at each other. MacCready breaks first, unable to keep up the act, laughing. Deacon joins him, and Mac leans in for a half-hug, sparing Deacon’s shoulder.

“Still not the hugging type.”

“Felt like it. You alright? You look like shit, man.”

“Yeah shot myself while cleaning my rifle. You know, clumsy me.”

“Dude.” MacCready laughs at the obvious lie, “If your .50mm had hit you from that close, you could’ve waved your arm goodbye. Except your arm would be waving at you.”

“I was lucky.” He drawls.

“If you say so. What the heck brings you to Diamond City?”

“You know how it is. I always end up places I’m not supposed to be-- And you? Thought you’d live the sweet domestic life by now.”

“Yeah, not quite yet. I’m clearing some old debts, selling the last pieces of junk. Preparing to set up camp in Sanctuary before I’m heading to get Duncan.” Mac smiles a stupidly happy smile.

“So, that’s it then. No more mercenary-ing around. Good for you. Really. I’m happy for ya.” He knows his words sound lamer than he means them to, but MacCready knows he’s lucky, he doesn’t need a dirtbag like Deacon to tell him that. “Hey, you wanna go for a drink?”

“It’s the middle of the day, and I’m here for business!”

“Which means you gotta have some caps on you. C’mon MacCready, buy a crippled old gun a beer.” His words must have been poorly disguised as a joke, because now MacCready’s features soften-- which is a response he gets quite often lately. Surprisingly enough, even from people who should know he doesn’t deserve any pity.

“Alright. C’mon old man. But I’m not gonna pay your tab.” He gets up, waiting for Deacon. “What about that Tin Woodman here?” Ha asks, pointing at the power armor.

“I wanna see somebody try kidnap him. Let’s go.”

  
  


\---

  
  


“Didn’t expect former Brotherhood to show up at my doorstep one day.” Valentine comments as Danse takes off his flight helmet.

“You know who I am?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is an investigation firm.” The sarcasm is cutting sharp. “What do you want?”

“Nick, are you sure-?” Ellie stops herself mid sentence.

“Well, since he already came all the way here, we might as well listen to what he has to say. Take a seat.” Valentine gestures at the client’s seat.

“I’m not--” Danse remains standing, “I don’t have a case. I am simply here to pick up the key for Nora’s home plate. We’re here on a mission for the Minutemen.”

“Aha. Right.” Valentine sounds thoroughly disinterested. “Now take a seat.” His yellow eyes are piercing and leave glowing after-shadows on Danse’s retina. Danse treads from one foot on the other, unable to avert his eyes from the machine-man; visibly an automaton, plastic casing falling apart, rubber pieces peeling up, his banged up state reveals the wiring underneath, the cold shining metal and intricate circuitry. Valentine is in the seat opposite of the desk, reaching for a cigarette with a metal skeleton hand, letting the Paladin stare as long as he wants, calmly forcing Danse to sit down. 

And so he does.

  
  


\---

  
  


It doesn’t end with beer. The shot glasses pile up on their table. Diamond City radio is on. Thankfully no Radio Freedom, Deacon thinks, for fiddle music will probably trigger a fight or flight response in him for the rest of his life.

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” MacCready has only had a beer or two. “You don’t wanna get blind drinking all of Vadim’s latest brew-ups.”

“What?” Deacon drawls, “are you practising your fatherly voice on me or are you in fear for your dear little caps?”

“I know desperate drinking when I see it. Why don’t you go to the pastor or whoever and spill whatever it is. Maybe it’ll help you.”

Deacon laughs without emotion. “Do I strike you as the confessing type?”

“You look like you’ve got some serious issues you need to sort out. But I know better than to get dragged into your drama, is all I’m saying.”

“Hey Mac, can I kiss you?”

MacCready almost chokes on his drink, laughing. “Still using that boring old trick to deflect? Does it ever work on anybody?”

“You’d be surprised.”

  
  


\---

  
  


The ground underneath his feet is fleeting, his eyes open but unseeing.

_ Reset _ .

Danse walks through Diamond City without registering any of the flashing lights, the passing people.

_ It rests you _ .

The key rattles in his pocket-- yes, he remembers, he was on his way to get the key--

_ It resets your brain _ , is what he said.

The suit is still parked near the lively market as he returns. Some city guard chides him for leaving it there. Deacon is gone.

_ Whatever _ .

Like on autopilot, he drags the power armor into the home plate, piece by piece. A lifeless husk. A machine, useless.

Finally, the door closes. The city bustle lefts outside. He sits down on the floor of Nora’s home plate, surrounded by rusty broken parts.

_ There is so much work _ .

But he’s tired.

So tired.

His senses feel numb, and his brain is slow and fast at the same time-- If he even  _ has _ a proper brain. Probably. Maybe?

The walls are closing in on him, it’s Listening Post Bravo all over again. Back in the bunker, he busied himself with restoring that X-01 power armor. Making himself useful when he felt the most useless.

The recall code, a  _ reset _ code--

A few simple words, they have the power to take everything from him-- He’s an automaton with a damn  _ off _ switch, plain and simple.

All this time, he kept onto his holotags-- Their metal edges cutting into his fingers as he traces the rim, a thin but sturdy chain attached to them. The punched in letters are worn out, covered in scratches.  _ Paladin Danse, registration DN-407P, bloodtype 0 _ .

This person never existed.

He’s a machine that murders his brothers and sisters--

He betrayed all of them.

Only this time with a seeing eye.

He forces back tears he’s got no right to have, and hurls the tags to the ground.

It’s all a lie, he has never been that person.

-

It must have been hours, the sun has set long ago, as the front door opens with a creak. Danse completely forgot to lock it. Sloppy. 

He still hasn’t moved from the ground. Slowly, he looks up as the intruder comes into view. It’s a very drunk Deacon, giggling and exhaustively saying his goodbyes to somebody at the door.  _ Whatever _ .

And if it was a raider here to kill him, he would not care.

_ Nora would _ .

He flinches.

_ She didn’t even look at him in Hangman’s Alley _ .

Finally, Deacon closes the heavy door. His chipper expression instantly fades as he switches the lights on and sees Danse cowering on the floor, scattered metal pieces around him.

“Hey.” 

Danse doesn’t look up, his eyes fixed at a dark corner of the house. “Turn off the light.” He says, as if to hide all of his numerous shortcomings.

Deacon hesitates, but eventually does as told, and it’s almost completely dark again, only a dim light entering through the cracks of the doorframe.

“Are you-- what happened?”

  
  


\--- 

  
  


The darkness keeps silent, then, rustling- Danse gets up, probably, Deacon’s eyes haven’t adjusted to the lack of light yet. Steps approaching, and just like that, Danse is standing right in front of him, close, much too close, his hand groping for Deacon’s thigh, reaching for the pistol in the holster there.

“What are you--?” Fear in his voiceless words-- Deacon’s heart rate accelerates, the pistol’s safety clicks-- it’s a reflex, not fast, not precise-- Deacon tries to knock away the gun-- a shot fired, reverberating in the room. Losing balance, Deacon topples to the ground, feels for the weapon, ready to attack and defend-- but Danse doesn’t seem to move. Deacon makes it to the switch and bright light floods the room-- he is prepared for everything, for a fight, for a hundred Institute synths, for anything but--

Tears streaming down Danse’s face.

Deacon just stares at him, the pistol helplessly in his left.

The shot missed, they’re both unhurt.

There’s no more threat. The safety clicks back on, and with that, Danse remembers to move again, he’s at his bag within a second, pulls out his laser rifle, tries and aims it at--

The smell of ozone, Deacon and Danse both falling to the ground-- A bullet hole in the wall behind Danse’s head. It missed only by a hair.

“What the fuck?!” Deacon wheezes as he rips the rifle from Danse’s unprotesting hands. He secures the weapon and hurls it far away from them. “What the fuck, Danse?!” He repeats helplessly, the alcohol in his system not aiding to comprehend the situation. Erratically panting from pain and exhaustion, Deacon sags down next to a collapsed Danse.

“You- you can’t do something like that!” Deacon yells frantically under heavy breaths. “You just can’t, do you hear me!” He shakes his head again and again, making him feel dizzy.

Danse stares at him, more and more tears streaming down his face.

Deacon swallows hard, he didn’t mean to make things worse, did he make things worse? Oh my god, what, how, he his barely equipped to deal with something like this on his best of days.

It’s a muffled whisper as Danse speaks again, pawing his face and smearing his tears. “I’m just a piece of technology gone wrong--”

“No.”

“I murdered my own brothers and sisters.”

“Stop.  _ Please _ \--”

The Paladin finally looks up at him. “I knew every single one of the men and women I killed down there, John.”

His posture loses all strength, his eyes no more welling with tears, only horror and desperation.

“If I ever had a right to exist, it is revoked now.”

“Fuck-  _ shit _ , Danse. Don’t do that to me.” He grabs Danse by the shoulder, holding him, holding onto-- “Don’t hurl your existential crisis at me when I’m fucking blitzed-- it’s- it’s not fair. Like this, I don’t know if I’m charming enough to talk you outta it--  _ Fuck _ .”

“Why do you even care? Because I’m a synth? And you follow the delusion that synths deserve freedom of will? Look what I’ve done with my free will-- I betrayed everything I believed in. How--”

Weak, sloppy punches interrupt him, landing in Danse’s side, again and again, Deacon shakes his head, using what little strength he has left to punch him like an exhausted child begging for attention. “Stop it, stop it, no, stop it…”

Danse catches the next puny punch, holds Deacon’s hand. “I stop.” 

“Fuck you, Danse--” He retreats his hand and takes off his sunglasses to rub his eyes. “You did nothing wrong. Get that through your fucking thick, synthetic skull.”

Danse inhales jerkily. They sit in silence for a moment, pathetically sprawled across the concrete floor amidst an assortment of busted power armor parts. Two guns fired, two bullet holes somewhere in the wall. As by a miracle, nobody got hurt.

“You must be in pain.” Danse finally says. “I’ll give you some pain killers.”

“You know I’m fucking allergic.”

“No you’re not.” Danse replies and gets up to find the medi kit. “Ready?”

“You know I never am.”

Danse rolls up the sleeve and disinfects Deacon’s upper arm with cool soaked rag. Deacon calmly watches him administer the needle, his eyes following up the other man’s hand, over his strong arm, broad shoulders. Danse removes the needle, presses the puncture, their eyes meet. Deacon looks down, reaches to press the puncture himself, fingers touching as Danse retreats.

“I’m done.” Deacon drawls. “I’d see it as a close personal favor if you didn’t murder me or yourself in my sleep tonight.”

Danse silently nods and turns away to head upstairs at the platform with the bed. He turns to look back at Deacon who doesn’t make any move to follow.

“Go ahead, pal, I’ll just jot something down in my diary real quick.”


	5. A History of Repetition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some game dialogue with Arturo I have never encountered myself, but is supposedly in the game according to the dialogue files

The next morning, Deacon wakes from a deep numbing sleep as if he had been knocked out by a sledgehammer. His consciousness only slowly creeps back to him , silently condemning the medication for clouding his senses and making him feel so cold, and-- something is missing. He feels for the other side of the bed to find it empty, faint warmth still caught beneath the sheets. Bit by bit, he takes in the dim lighted room. There is the ground level beneath, with the workshop and the tools, on the raised middle level is the bed he’s on, in the corner a ladder leading up to the roof.  _ The roof _ \--

With that thought, Deacon’s heart begins to race, his mind now wide awake, remembering the four storey drop off the rooftop, the hatch seems open, he’s gotta check-- He stumbles out of bed, almost knocking over the nightstand next to him, toppling to the ladder and trying to climb it one-handedly. Before he can make it even half way up, a piercing ray of sunlight hits his face, dipping his surroundings in blinding bright colors.

“What’s going on, I heard noise.” It’s Danse, looking down the hatch. “Why are you panting?”

“Let’s go shopping, with me, please, Paladin, now.” Deacon incoherently bursts out in reply, his voice all raspy from dehydration.

“Go ahead, there’s caps in the bag.”

“I wanna go with you- alone I feel all damsel’d with this  _ slingshot _ wrapped around my arm.” Deacon pleads, squinting his eyes tightly in an effort to focus Danse before the bright sky.

A disgruntled sigh from the rooftop which Deacon knows to read as a concession, and they leave for the market.

Danse is bartering for tools and spare parts for the power armor, ironically, over at Diamond City Surplus of all places, where Myrna follows a strict no-synth policy. She would be surprised to learn the polite man in front of her who even makes her cranky character mellow out a bit was one of  _ them _ . The next stall over, Deacon is casually browsing the wares.

“Geiger counter, bud?” Arturo, the owner of Commonwealth Weaponry, asks him.

“Mine is in the shop.” The spy answers with the countersign.

“You’re the guy about Piper’s article?”

“The one and only.”

“I'd be careful around here. The target keeps late hours with strange visitors. “

“That's not proof.”

“Hey, not even the reporter has dug up anything more yet.”

“Got it. Keep your head down and no heroics.”

Like in a studied play, Arturo resumes to praising his wares while Deacon turns to walk over to Takahashi for supplies.  _ Nothing like hot noodles for breakfast _ , Deacon thinks, as he sits down at the counter waiting for Danse. The Paladin and the Diamond City trader are still bargaining, but it’s not bound to have any success for Myrna is one of the toughest negotiators in the Commonwealth. With half an ear listening, Deacon’s eyes wander skywards to the upper ranks of the former baseball stadium that is now  _ The Great Green Jewel _ of the Commonwealth; up to where mayor McDonough resides- the man with the  _ strange visitors _ after every kid’s bedtime. Deacon wonders if Nora is one of them; if the mayor really should be a synth imposter, it’s possible Nora runs errands for him and the Institute. But she would tell him if that was the case, right? 

_ You never know _ .

Finally Danse is wrapping up his purchase and drags a heavy bag full of jangling scrap with him.

“That’s a lot of kitty litter for our rusty tabby. You really gonna need all that?” Deacon jokes half concerned as Danse joins him.

“I’m afraid so.” Danse orders a cup of noodles. “How much caps do you have on you? That trader wouldn’t give me much of a discount despite me buying up all of her power armor parts.”

“She gave you a  _ what _ now? Myrna never backs down on her prices.” Deacon smirks and studies Danse in exaggerated awe. “I see you’re wasting some serious talent here. I’ve got a million ideas how to put that charm of yours to work.” He says and adds with a quick glance at Diamond City’s upper ranks, “Say, does your mojo also happen to work on secretaries?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Danse flatly replies as humorless as ever. “Perhaps you should try not to outsmart everybody for once and it might actually pay off.” He says and slurps the hot meal of noodles.

“Nah, I’ll leave the noble deeds to you. We should totally aim for a good-cop-bad-cop drollery though-- imagine the possibilities.”

No response.  _ Tough audience _ .

They return to the home plate where Danse immediately gets to dissembling and sorting the scrap, sitting on the floor just like he did yesterday, only it’s nothing like yesterday. Deacon flops down on a crate next to an unsteady patio table that seems out of place indoors with its ragged parasol, and leisurely takes time to unpack his shopping.

“Heard you liked sweet things, you sweet thing.” Deacon says as he presents a package of Fancy Lads. The other man looks at him with more gravitas in his eyes than Deacon can possibly bear. “What? Do I have a booger on my face?”

Danse heavily sighs and nods in acknowledgement for the present. Deacon turns back to his shopping and produces a pack of cigarettes from his bag. It’s a new one, even wrapped in brittle plastic foil, but still hard to open with only one hand. He unsuccessfully fumbles for a cigarette, impatiently shakes the half opened package. Danse sets aside his tools and walks over to snatch it from Deacon’s hand.

_ Alright, the Paladin doesn’t like the smell, noted _ .

Danse sits down next to him, a grim look on his face. Opening the pack, he produces a cigarette and passes it to Deacon.

“Can we talk about yesterday?” The Paladin asks and clicks a lighter.

“Don’t know what you mean.” Deacon leans in, the warm scent of tobacco rising up. “Sorry for coming back completely tanked, I guess.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Hey, if I did anything stupid or embarrassing, I apologize, okay? I barely remember how I even made it here.”

“You don’t remember anything?”

“Nah man, I’m glad yesterday’s frenzy didn’t give me some dainty little methanol blindness. Barfed on the street first thing in the morning.”

Danse looks at him puzzled, shifting his weight from one side to the other. 

_ This game is almost too easy _ .

“Please, just don’t tell me what I did, I sleep better not knowing. On an aside, if you still need parts, you should go find MacCready, he’s in town and got some merchandise to sell.”

“Ah. Yeah.” Danse fidgets with the flip lighter in his hands, then puts it down on the table.

“Oh and-” Danse turns back again, “have you seen my fusion cells? I seem to have misplaced all of my ammunition.”

“I have no idea, pal.” Deacon exhales a veil of smoke.

-

Danse looks a little lost in that sea of scrap metal around him. He tries to bring order into that chaos of bits and parts, systematically grouping bits and parts and what seems to be a ‘decide later’ pile that is growing and growing. His hands collect dust, and rust, and oil as they sort through the heaps of scrap.

“You used to be more subtle about your staring, John.”

An amused chuckle in reply. “You prefer more subtlety?”

“I prefer you stopping to ogle me. Why don’t you go somewhere else.” It’s not a question, it’s more like a… strong recommendation.

“Yeah. I wanted to pay a visit to the doc anyway.” With that, Deacon leaves. For a few minutes, there is quiet in the house until the door swings open yet again.

  
  


\---

  
  


“What, did you forget to take your gawking eyeballs with you?” Danse snarks without looking up.

“Uh, I don’t know what you mean. Hi!” That’s not Deacon, it’s that lanky boyish man with the oversized hat--

“You’re that  _ mercenary _ , right?” Danse asks with contempt.

“MacCready’s the name. Didn’t expect someone to be in here, Deacon sent me over to  _ ‘guard the goodies’ _ . Now I can see what he meant,  _ Paladin _ .”

Danse furrows his brow and turns back to his task. “I need no guarding. Leave now.”

“No can’t do.” MacCready casually replies as he makes himself at home, curiously looking around in the room. “Gave me 10 caps just for sitting here-- and I always fill my contract.”

  
  


\---

  
  


He always hated the mega surgery center. Doc Crocker was as brilliant a plastic surgeon as he was mad, and he eventually brought himself to justice over murdering an innocent person who’s sole fault was that the doc didn’t like his face. But right now, Deacon wishes the crazy old man and his famous talent were back. The doc would always be thrilled to help out everytime Deacon needed a new cover, a new look, a new face to vanish into the crowd and make his spy job a hell of a lot easier. Doc Crock could make miracles happen-- Miracles that his successor, doctor Sun, doesn't seem to be quite capable of. 

Deacon’s not in for a face change, even though it’s well overdue. He’s just in for a  _ minor check-up _ . But the doc tells him the same story every other quack in the Commonwealth has already told him, only this time from a  _ surgeon’s perspective _ . Which means: scalpels, blood, and extra caps to pay.  _ Charlatan _ .

Still dizzy from the whole procedure, and the chems it entailed, Deacon flounders his way back to the thankfully very close home plate. He manages to open the heavy door and is met with Danse and MacCready, both immersed in cheerful conversation, having a leisurely afternoon coffee party with Nuka Cola and Fancy Lads.

“I feel like I stepped into the wrong dimension here.” Deacon drawls.

“Deeks!” MacCready cheers at him with the bottle, “we were just talking about how you use sweet snuggles and cute kisses to avoid uncomfortable conversations, thinking nobody notices!”

“Say whaaat?” Too much information for Deacon to process, “You two-- I never should have let you two meet-- does anyone of you wanna make out?”

Mac bursts into laughter, Danse gently shakes his head, his hand barely covering a smile as wide as his face.

_ What the fuck _ .

“Mac, I think you should move your sassy ass outta here.” Deacon stumbles over to him, almost losing balance when treading through the scattered metal parts on the floor. “I didn’t buy that for you.” He says as he forcefully snatches the bottle from his hand, spilling half of it.

“Whoa man, you alright? You seem drugged-- and pissed.” MacCready backs off. Danse steps in before Deacon can get any more unfriendly than he already is. He’s not happy about being ushered away, and puts up a pathetic fight with Danse, who in response sees no other option than to pick him up and sit him down on a crate, like a child confined to the silent chair. Exhausted and disoriented, he stops resisting.

Perception is dizzy, but Deacon vaguely notices three things: MacCready leaving, Danse steadying him, and a sudden pain in his chest that shouldn’t be there considering the amount of drugs that flood his system.

“What the heck is wrong with you? First you pay him to guard me or whatever, then you chase him away.”

Deacon doesn't answer.

  
  


\---

  
  


Danse tries to talk to Deacon in a gentle tone, but nothing seems to really get through, with Deacon now mumbling nonsensical half sentences and flailing his hand-- there seem to be a stain on Deacon’s shirt, right on his shoulder. It’s hard to tell because of the dark fabric, but when Danse touches the spot, his fingers return red.

Danse carries him up to the second floor and lets him down on the bed, gets the medikit and unbuttons Deacon’s shirt.

“Hey now, that’s becoming a habit…” Deacon drawls with a weak smirk on his lips.

“I don’t know how you managed it, but your shoulder is bleeding again-- are these recent stitches?” Danse examines the wound with growing concern.

“Heh, that’s what you do after surgery, genius--” Deacon murmurs.

“You got your wound reopened? Why?”

“A stray splinter or something, I dunno…” Deacon squirms under Danse hands, makes it difficult to properly dress the wound. “Hey, can we snuggle up again tonight?”

Danse stays silent as he struggles to clean the stitches, then hums a deep tone. “Yes, we can. Just tell me what’s wrong with your shoulder?”

“Do you know how hard I have to work to make you smile, just a little?” Deacon bursts out, “and then Mac waltzes in here and you grin like a Cheshire-!”

Danse blinks a few times in confusion. This man remains an unsolved mystery who always has his priorities in places Danse would never suspect them.

Make him smile? 

“I don’t even know what a Cheshire is.” Admitting that fact seems easier than attempting to decipher whatever Deacon was trying to say.

“It’s a cat. A  _ cat _ .” Deacon says with emphasis as if that would explain anything. " _ You may have noticed that I'm not all there myself _ ."

“What?”

“The cat, he says that, ‘cause, you see, he can make himself invisible, and all that remains is his wide toothy smile.”

“I can see why that would be intriguing to you.”

“Clever, right?”

Danse manages to finish dressing the wound despite Deacon not being cooperative at all, and gets up to find something to drink for his patient.

“Where you going?” There’s weak protest from the bed.

“I’ll be right back.”

“You promised me a snuggle session.” 

Danse sighs and turns back to Deacon, who’s lying on his back, shoulder and side in bandages, the neck bruised from the sling he’s been wearing for weeks. How does this bundle of trouble even hold together? 

“See,” Deacon smiles a frail smile, “it’s not always to dodge a conversation-- Sometimes, I just-” He stops talking and gestures in the air. Danse doesn’t wait for him to continue and walks around the bed to lay down next to Deacon, his arm carefully slung around him as to not hurt his injuries.

“Sleep.” The Paladin tells him, and soon Deacon’s chest rises and falls evenly. For a moment, Danse ponders if he should take off the other man’s sunglasses for greater comfort, but quickly decides against it. Deacon, John-- this fragile human being dedicates all his energy into saving synths but forgets that he needs saving too.

After a while, Danse sneaks back to his work, and it’s not until hours later in the evening that Deacon wakes. Danse doesn’t realize the other man is awake until his eyes coincidentally drift across the room to the upper platform. “You’re up.”

Deacon sits on the edge of the bed, even from this distance, his face visibly pale and blank, his posture looking like he would fall over any second.

“Feeling awful?”

A slow nod.

“Water?”

Another nod.

“Hold on, I got you.”

“--n the crate.” Deacon’s brittle voice doesn’t carry very far. “Your ammo- it’s in the crate.” 

Danse stops. It’s like someone else is holding the can of water. For a moment he a wave of dull ache fills his heart.

_ He remembers. Of course he remembers _ .

“Thank you.” 

He almost whispers, unsure if Deacon has heard him, but a look up at him tells him that he has.

  
  


\---

  
  


“ _ ‘Two days have passed since that day of lunacy. What a noise and a fuss and a chattering and an uproar there was! And what a welter of unseemliness and disorder and stupidity and bad manners! And I the cause of it all!’ _ \-- ha, I dig this dude. What do you think?”

“I think you should read on, because I want to know what happened to Polina.”

“Alriiight!” Deacon sings, “making a bibliophile outta you after all.”

In the past days, they established quite the rapport; Danse working on the suit, Deacon sprawled out on an upholstered armchair they found in the back of the house, dozing in and out, reading Danse from the novel whenever Deacon feels strong enough. They spend the whole day in the shop, taking breaks together, sharing meals, talking about the book’s story, and Danse being surprised and impressed a spy can afford to have such a deep sleep when he takes a nap in the middle of metal work. Finally, the suit is in good enough shape to be moved greater distances. 

“Building it up from scratch just might have been easier.” Danse sighs as he examines his handiwork, rubbing a tense muscle in his neck, leaving a faint dark trace of oil on his skin.

“You’re a true wizard. A wizard with a hammer, smoldering iron, and... lube oil.” Deacon smirks with an unseen wink in his eye, waving around the book like a wand.

Danse chuckles, exhausted but amused. He seems to take the joke as what it was intended; praise. Deacon gets up to join Danse, one arm propped up on his hip. “Ahh, I feel like a proud father.”

“Yeah, and just like one, you didn’t help much.” Danse plays along.

“Heyy, proper education is important!” Deacon feigns a scandalized look and turns to the suit. “Don’t listen to him, Philip,” he says and pats it encouragingly on the shoulder, “you can be still a poet. Just believe in yourself.”

Danse pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head.

“C’mon, don’t hide it. I know you’re smiling,” Deacon tilts his head to get a better view of the Paladin’s face-- warm brown eyes look back at him, and for a split second Deacon wishes he wouldn’t wear sunglasses, wishes he could return that look for the other man to see. 

The urge passes, and Deacon begins to collect their belongings. They already stayed long enough in Diamond City, time to get moving again, that armor needs delivering, and--

“It’s not true that you didn’t help much.” Danse is still standing there, making no move to pack up. “Your support has been indispensable, and is appreciated a great deal.”

It feels undeserved to be thanked, but Deacon doesn’t want to ruin the moment for Danse, nods and says, “I really appreciate  _ you _ putting up with my bullshit. And, you know, being my bullet sponge back in HQ. And all that-” He flails about with his hand, “I owe you.”

“No.” Danse replies firmly. “We’re more than even.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand that's Dostoevsky's Gambler Deacon is readin from. We're being all pretentious and quote high literature in our fanfiction! that's the way to go, folks


	6. Caught

The Castle sits nestling on the seashore, unmovable and thick like bay barnacle. The only thing towering up high is the tall slender radio beacon in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by the massive stone walls of the Castle. It’s a fortress equipped with automatic laser turrets and artillery that can shoot cannonballs and nuclear warheads alike. 

The Minutemen are a serious force now in the Commonwealth, their continuous growth impresses Danse; no wonder the Brotherhood begins to feel uneasy about their firepower. Power armor is one of the few things that still give the Brotherhood the upper hand, and even that is about to change.

“Power armor retrieval squad reporting back. I’d do a proper salute like you people do, but as you can see, arm’s still out of commission,  _ General _ .” Deacon stands in a mock greeting, which is met with genuine joy of Preston about seeing his friends. The moment Danse is out of the power armor, he feels the urge to put his arms around Preston, but stops himself-- his friend is the General now, there is decorum to uphold, and--

“It’s so good to see you.” Preston pulls Danse in a close embrace, nudging his hat which almost fall to the ground. There is happiness in his eyes, but also worry that asks,  _ did I ask too much of you _ ?

So many things have to stay unsaid until later. For now, Preston adjusts his hat, orders his Minutemen to store the suit in the shop and to take care of their guests. Deacon quickly bows out, probably in full on spy mode examining the Minutemen base.

“You must be tired from your journey. You can take rest in my quarters, it’s quiet there.” Preston offers Danse, who does indeed look tired after travelling the night all the way from Diamond City down to the coast. 

The General’s quarters, are set up in a quite large poliangular room. Several pieces of beautiful pre-war furniture tidily arranged; on the far end a double bed, a meeting table in the center. The cold stone floor and walls decorated with carpets, flags, and paintings, numerous Minutemen memorabilia displayed in an ornamanted bureau. It’s a pragmatic design with distinct regal touch, looking like nothing you would expect coming in from the blasted wastelands outside.

“They insist on the General occupying these quarters,” Preston explains a little bit embarrassed, “and how can I decline when they express their approval with this, right?”

Danse nods with a smile. “It suits you.”

The General excuses himself to tend to the duties of the day, leaving behind a very tired Danse who falls asleep faster than he could have hoped for. 

  
  


\---

  
  


Ahh-- The Castle. Home of civil virtue, suppressed redneck tendencies, and goddamn fiddle music of all things. Deacon sends a quick prayer to whatever higher powers blessed this place with a closed up radio booth ever since the last time he visited-- the memory of how in the early days the broadcast would echo throughout the whole courtyard  _ all day, all across the Castle _ still vivid in the Railroad agent’s mind. Maybe gods exist and do have mercy.

The Minutemen base does have a clinic, and word is, a good one. Perhaps, not all hope is lost yet.

_ Clinging to hope now, are we _ ?

As if on command, his hand resting in the sling twitches like electricity was running from his fingertips up to his collarbone. Clawing into his arm with his good hand, the tremor ceases- fingernails buried into his skin, deeper and deeper, waiting for a painful feedback that just doesn’t come.

_ Bullshit _ .

The doctor seems nice enough, listens, examines the stitches. “Good news.” She finally says, “You motor functions should mostly recover. The numbness will persist, but on overall you should keep your mobility. What is that you said you do?”

“I’m an ice cream vendor.”

“A what now?”

“I trade things. For trade stuff.”

“You’ll be fine then.”

“Yeah right, don’t need fine motor skills and a steady right hand, like, at all. Thanks doc.”

_ What a waste of caps _ .

He covers up and leaves. The seagulls squealing, waves rolling ashore with a splash, the low reassuring hum of the defence system ubiquitous. He seeks the shade of the massive walls surrounding him, collapsed at two parts, the only vulnerability of this perfect fortress. There are two guardposts on every breach, one laser turret each, every of the four postguards equipped with a trademark musket, except for one who for some reason thought a flamer would be the appropriate choice for defending on range, two more people operating the artillery, the pride of the Minutemen, they have pipe pistols in their holsters, of the battered and ill maintained kind, they probably are much better shots with the cannon balls than with fire arms-- stop it,  _ what _ .

Nonsensical details all around him, his brain gooey one moment, in hyperdrive the next-- He kicks a stone, wants to punch a wall, those  _ fucking _ oversized walls--

_ Who am I gonna give my sniper rifle to, MacCready’s a smug bastard, but he’s probably the only one who'd appreciate it _ \--

He remembers the 10mm pistol Danse gave him. The gun is light in his hand, nothing like his bulky .50 caliber with its reassuring weight and long precision scope. The pistol’s chamber counts sixteen-bullets, not too much, not too little. An indulgence compared to the seven shots he got with his old lady.

_ Gotta learn to shoot left-handed _ \--

  


It’s dusk when Deacon wakes with a growling stomach from a restless more-or-less sleep. Rummaging in his small bag, he finds nothing but his thin beat-up novel, the pages smoothly running through his fingers. 

_ You come along _ , he thinks, and saunters down the hallway, idly shifting his thumb through the paper. He’s not quite sure about the proper etiquette, but since the General is a friendly host, and the pantry is unguarded, Deacon helps himself to a generous meal. Just as he’s sneaking out, he can see the kitchen crew come in to prepare dinner. Delighted about his impeccable timing, he enters the courtyard. 

Over in the armory is where Deacon knows Danse has set up shop for further tinkering on the suit. Knowing the perfectionist, he’ll probably work there half the night and not get much rest, welcoming any good conversation or interesting read. They’re at chapter twelve, and Deacon knows the Paladin is dying to learn what happens next. Deacon smiles at the thought.

There's warm electrical light flooding down the hallway, the jangling of tools and metal. As the spy approaches, he also hears voices from around the corner, and reflexively switches to stealth mode.

“Perhaps… asking you to get that power armor for me was my way to lure you here.” It’s the General. “Sorry I wasn’t upfront with that.”

Danse chuckles in response. “I don’t mind that at all, Preston.”

“It’s just… When you disappeared after the battle, I was worried. Worried about how you’d deal with things--”

“I know.” Danse quickly replies. “I still don’t know how to deal with it.”

Silence, some rustling.

“I’m always here for you if you need me.”

Some more whispers Deacon can’t discern-- he tightens the grip on the book and noiselessly turns on his heel.

-

In the morning, there is autumn fog in the sky, clinging to the Castle’s outer walls, bedding it into a white murky cushion. A murder of crows stirs up somewhere in the mist, a low and concerned murmur within the walls, steps swiftly approaching the community dorm room.

“Deacon, wake up.” It’s the General, half dressed and in unusual disarray. “We got a message from Nora-- it’s coded.”

Deacon’s brain reboots within the second-- Wanderer using Railroad cipher, sending it to the Castle despite knowing the Minutemen cancelled their support-- an desperate move.

The flimsy piece of paper crumbles in his hand, her writing barely visible on the browned paper, it translates to-- the package, a synth, in danger... double +, meaning heavy onslaught is to be expected from... the Nuclear Family- The Institute.

“Broadcast it.” He urges. “Someone’s in danger.” Possibly the whole Railroad.  _ Shit _ . They haven’t been moving packages lately, too risky, too short on staff, that can only mean-- “Our safehouses might get hit.”

_ Shit shit shit _ .

And Deacon’s sitting there, benched, useless. “Preston, please, you gotta broadcast this.  _ Now _ .”

Preston nods and disappears as swiftly as he came.

Deacon stares at the ground.  _ Something _ . He rubs his face.  _ Something was off _ . He gets up, reaches for his sunglasses. It said  _ the _ package, not  _ a _ package- like it would signify a specific person.  _ But who?  _

In the murky courtyard, the radio booth’s door is ajar, Preston himself is overseeing that the message is correctly broadcasted.

_ Think, think, think, goddamnit _ .

The morning sun is slowly melting the mist away, a dark shadow in the distance, the Prydwen is looming like a predator waiting to pounce--

“Where’s Danse?”

  
  


\---

  
  


There are several useable parts, surprisingly good salvage for a place like this. Danse is out during the early morning hours, hoping to find some additional scrap parts before dawn, before travelling gets unsafe for him.

The fog poses both a danger and a tactical advantage; he’ll be in and out quickly. The chance of a random encounter is low, the Minutemen keeps the roads to the Castle safe. If he doesn’t get lead astray by promising loot, raiders and vertibirds won’t be a problem.

The pillars of the partially collapsed house seem like lurking raiders or darting beasts; Danse’s mind plays him a trick more than once. With the approaching sunlight, he collects the last few bits and bolts, and makes his way back to the Castle. Climbing down the debris, he passes a few more menacing looking shadows and casually throws a stone at one of them just to amuse himself.

The shadow catches it.

“Unit M7-97, initialize factory reset.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things will be alright, I promise


	7. The Unbearable Lightness of Being, part 1

For days now the dull sky has been emptying itself in a gentle but ceaseless drizzle, leaving every piece of his clothing in a damp chill. He fumbles with the lighter-- click click click-- until a flame comes to life. A red spark on the tip of his cigarette and he does what he does best.

Wait.

Deacon is huddled inside a skewed lookout post, monitoring the barren wasteland.

Nothing.

He could be back in their temporary HQ, Ticonderoga. Deacon hates it. Too high up in the sky, too exposed, too vulnerable.

A stiff breeze makes him shiver. Maybe he should warm up somewhere. But he can’t leave his post. Not yet.

He flips through a small worn out book without registering any of the content, until a dollar note used as a bookmark falls from the pages. Chapter 12. The part in which  _ La Babulinka _ loses all her fortune at the roulette and returns home to Moscow. She wanted too much. He puts the note back and shuts the book.

_ It’s been three months _ .

Another cold shiver runs through him. There are no news, no updates, no trails or tracks. The Institute took him, and that’s that. Deacon’s nicotine consumption saw a considerable uptick since then. He should mark down the losses and move on, like he always does. Function. He’s not the one who should feel grief over losing a friend he never had.

_ Back to zero _ .

Days later, the rain finally stops. Deacon is surprised when the arriving Railroad runner doesn’t send him back to HQ, but to Goodneighbor. A meeting with the notorious mayor himself.

-

“You look like shit. Are you tryin’ to turn ghoul?”

“If I ever have ambitions in that direction, you’re the first one to know, Hancock. Now, word has it you know a way into our busted HQ?”

“Now, why would you say that? Whatever became of a friendly foreplay before getting down to business?”

“I guess my manners went along with the paladin when the Institute took him.” Playing the pitiful creature is easy, it does the trick. Hancock looks at him with mellowed black eyes.

“Didn’t know you two were close. C’mon, sit down.” He heads to the couches and pours them drinks. “You ever wonder how Brotherhood came to be indebted with me?”

-

Behind locked metal doors, down several flights of stairs into a cellar, Deacon treads a tunnel heading up north.

It’s not quite like Hancock had claimed. He said he promised to Danse that he wouldn’t loot the place, but when Deacon enters the half buried catacombs of the Old North Church, most of the armory is gone.

Just like all the corpses that must have been there.

The technical equipment is neatly organized atop office desks in the corner, ready for pick up, dusted. Not a droplet of blood anywhere. No debris, no  _ nothing _ . Just disquieting order.

Unbelievable.

What used to be the shooting range is now completely transformed. The ground is soft and uneven, there are wooden sticks arranged in rows--  _ Scribe Thomms. Knight Alber. Paladin Brandis. _

So, so many more.

The same in the crypt-- here it says,  _ Railroad. Railroad. Railroad. _ Meticulously etched letters.

An act of respect, no doubt.

_ Disturbing _ . 

Danse did all this. And then kept silent about it.  _ Why on earth?! _ \--

No time to think. Tinker Tom will be giddy about the retrieved data, they can contact Patriot and continue their job-- that’s all that matters right now.

-

A week later, they not only have message from their Institute contact, but also from Wanderer.

“She is insane! Blowing up her cover!” Carrington is more than a little displeased.

“No, no, no. I think her plan will work! She does her thing and -bam!- no more synths in the Institute!” Tinker Tom gestures excitedly .

“No more gen 3’s, but still plenty of other synths.” Glory adds with a frown.

“Depleting them of all their working staff might be a hit that slows them down just enough for the Minutemen to complete their artillery and nuke the Institute.” Desdemona ponders. “How far are they, Deacon?”

“Still trying to figure out how to move the nukes  _ sans _ any Vertis. But I get the feeling General Pres has a few cleverly stupid ideas up his sleeve.”

“Deacon,” Desdemona catches him as the others start preparation. “I want you to be careful. Among the 16 synths is most likely your friend Paladin. Of course he won’t remember his old life, and I don’t want you to give him any indication that you know him. The operation is complicated enough, we don’t need any more distractions.”

“Not my first rodeo, boss. Never thought I’d see the day you’d remind  _ me _ to lie.” 

-

The day of operation  _ Underground Undercover _ dawns, or rather, the night of it dusks, Deacon idly muses as he gets in place near the target location. He’s ditched the long range scope for a pistol, after the past slow months he’s too rusty for sniper work anyway, he tells himself.

And then, precisely for witching hour, the action begins. One after another, disoriented people in oddly white overalls emerge from the sewers. High Rise is there hastily handing out wasteland attire, Deacon is splitting the frightened refugees into smaller groups, Drummer boy is running messages between the subgroups to coordinate their departure-- A figure immersed in the green light of her pip-boy quickly nods at Deacon. It’s Nora, making sure not a single synths gets left behind. 

Deacon sees one or two familiar faces-- synths they tried to help, who they lost to Coursers. No time to dwell on past or present failings, they gotta move fast and--

“John!”

Someone’s calling him-- before Deacon can turn around, strong arms wrap around him, a soft warm timbre close to his ear:

“I am back, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is lifted off a Milan Kundera novel I read many years ago and of which I don't recall much except that I didn't like it haha


	8. The Unbearable Lightness of Being, part 2

They make it to a safe house in one piece. Danse looks exactly like Deacon remembers. Only  _ cleaner _ , almost artificial. Deacon flinches at the thought. Danse has always been artificial, that’s not the problem.

The former Paladin carries an Institute laser gun loosely in his hand for lack of any holster to keep it in. A tattered bomber jacket hides part of Danse’s pristine white Institute overalls. They don’t talk.

Deacon settles in and produces a can of purified water from his supplies, which promptly falls to the floor. Apologetically he picks it up and hands the indented can to Danse. “Try to get some sleep, I’ll keep an eye open.” Deacon says, finally managing to take his eyes from the other man.

“We can take shifts, you need some rest too.” Danse says, but Deacon shakes his head.

Danse doesn’t press the matter any further, doesn’t insist on doing the strategically sound thing-- he’s... different. The Institute took him. That changes a man, doesn’t it?

“So. Where do you want to go from here?” Deacon casually asks.

“To the Castle. No need for you to escort me.” He sounds wary, guarded, which is odd after the happy warm welcome. But then again, Deacon is just as stiff and Danse must be tired. Maybe he’s just reading too much into it.

“Why go there?”

Danse looks at him as if the answer was obvious. “Preston is there.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because he’s the General? Wait-” Danse sits up again. “Is this an inquiry? Are you testing whether I’m me?”

Deacon shrugs nondescript. “Just wondering about your plans.”

“I’m not stupid, John. I see the way you stare at me.”

“Maybe I’m checking you out.”

“Don’t turn this into a joke.”

No sassy comeback. “Doesn’t matter what I believe, Paladin.” Deacon says after a while, “fact is, the Institute snatched you, and for some lucky coincidence they didn’t reset you.”

“But I’m me!” Danse protests. “I don’t know how I can prove this to you! I- look, I remember everything-! Heck, I even remember some Courser suddenly standing in front of me! I call you ‘John’ for crying out loud!”

“A single lapse in my judgement can mean dozens of dead bodies.”

“So that’s it then. You will just treat me like an imposter? For a few weeks? A couple months? When will you have determined whether I am a threat or not? Huh?! And how would you even decide one way or another?” Danse’s hands fly in wild gestures, the rifle still in his hands.

“Tell me,” Deacon says, “would you trust such a situation?”

“No. I wouldn’t.” He speaks with cutting precision. “ _ I _ am not Railroad.  _ I _ am not supposed to help synths. I don’t dedicate my life to the ideal of granting synths humanity--” He stops, almost chokes on his words, “But  _ you _ . You are to believe me. Who else is?”

Desperate eyes stare at Deacon for some sort of reaction that doesn’t come.

“Goodbye.” Danse clutches his rifle and is out the door.

He has to follow Danse. Monitor him. And, according to Railroad security procedure, assess if he’s a threat.

Deacon has to stay professional, see things rational. Even when his personal feelings are involved.  _ Especially _ when his personal feelings are involved.

_ You’re not here to make friends. You’re here to safe synths _ .

-

Deacon doesn’t make any effort to hide his presence.

“I don’t need you shadowing me.”

The spy is openly tailing the synth on the road. “Leave me alone, John!”

“You’re waltzing through the Commonwealth in broad daylight, with the risk of vertibirds appearing any minute, no helmet to cover your identity, wearing the bright Institute whites like a target practice for Coursers on a duck hunt. You need to calm down and think for a minute.”

And indeed Danse looks like he’s thinking-- thinking about planting his fist in Deacon’s face. Luckily, he doesn’t, and after another moment his expression is annoyed, but composed.

“You know the Railroad routes we used to take?” Deacon asks, “most of them are still safe.”

“Just don’t get in my way.”

-

The General drops everything as soon as he sees Danse. It is the stuff happy reunions are made of: endless hugs, smeared tears, sobbed affections-- Preston hasn’t the slightest doubt the man in front of him is indeed Paladin Danse.

Deacon envies him for that.

“Danse, I see you travel with a bodyguard, that’s a good thing.” Preston finally turns to Deacon, patting him on the back. 

“Yeah,” Deacon replies, rubbing his shoulder, “that’s exactly what I’m here for. Guarding our resurrected Paladin.” And totally not spying on him in case he might turn out to be an imposter. No, not at all.

  
  


\----

  
  


Danse is back, he’s really back, here, with him-- For the first time in three months, joy lives again in Preston’s heart. He struggles to keep his hands with him, it’s an impossibility to not bury his long lost friend with love, care, and the promise to protect.

Danse seems well nourished and in physically good shape, but it’s obvious the Institute has taken its toll on him in different ways. After night meal, Preston ushers him away from the noise of communal eating and offers him to stay the night in his personal quarters. “You can relax here and sleep as long as you like. There is water in the cabinet and an extra blanket in the dresser if it’s getting cold.”

“You’re not staying?” 

“Am I-- no, I mean...,” Preston is caught off guard by the that frail looking Paladin in front of him. “You should rest. I’ll stay over at the communal hall, unless… you don’t me to leave?” It’s not hard to get a read out of Danse, he obviously needs the gentle presence of another person just as much as he needs physical rest.

“It’s just--” Danse begins, his voice breaking, teetering a step towards Preston. No more words have to be said for Preston to see the mask slipping, catching his friend in a warm embrace.

Danse tightly clings to him, his hands turned to claws that dig deep into the thick fabric of the General’s coat. “I’m alright, Preston.” Danse sobs, and it breaks Preston’s heart to hear the Paladin so weak, yet trying to be strong. “I’m alright now.” Preston can feel him shake, and he follows his instincts to gently cradle the other man’s head.

After a while, the breaths grow more regular and calm, and Danse brings just enough space between to show his reddened face, his soft brown eyes wet from tears. Preston fumbles in the side pocket of his coat, carefully as not to break contact with Danse, and produces a linen handkerchief.

Danse chuckles with a sob, mumbling something about how awful he must look, gladly accepting the cloth to clean up his face. Preston is relieved over the positive response and plays up the joke with a “Ta-da!”-face, claiming his fancy General’s coat can conjure up virtually anything. Danse weakly laughs into the fabric, complaining about how he shouldn’t make him laugh when he’s trying to blow his nose.

“Hey.” Preston smiles, now looking at a much more composed Danse. “It’s good to see you laugh.” His hand placed on the back of Danse’s head, naturally, without any chance to react, Danse leans in, lips gently ghosting over his like a breeze.

“Danse-”

“Sorry.” He interrupts. “I shouldn’t have.” Danse murmurs, averting his eyes.

“No--” Preston whispers voicelessly. “It’s alright.” With a gentle touch he leads Danse’s gaze back at him.

“Then... you wouldn’t object if I kissed you again?”

“No, I wouldn’t object.” Preston knows the formal choice of words means Danse is having a hard time navigating the situation. 

Danse is incredibly shy, barely touching Preston, who welcomes him, deepening the kiss. There are hands roaming Preston's body, a disappointed groan over the combat armor under his coat, quickly picking up pace, fumbling.

“Danse-” Preston breathes as he catches the other man's arms. “Slow down- You're not like yourself.”

Danse recoils like a kicked dog,  _ sorry _ , he sputters, the distance between them seems endless despite it merely being an arm’s length.

“It's alright,” Preston tries to reassure him, “just don't go any faster than I can keep up with.”

“I'm not like myself, am I?” Danse paces along the table back and forth, “I'm not the way I was, Am I?” There is panic in his tone, Preston catches him as he walks by once more.

“Danse, from what I can tell you've been to hell and back.”

“That's not what I mean-” Danse interrupts himself. “You know that I'm me, right?”

“Of course I do.” He gently strokes Danse’s arm, “ A minute ago you asked me whether or not I ‘objected’ to a kiss or not.” Preston tries with gentle humor, to no avail.

“John has doubts. He doesn't believe me. And I'm not so sure anymore what I'm to believe myself-”

A kiss on the forehead of the crumbled figure before him, Preston takes Danse back into his arms. “You will figure it out. I’m here to help you if you need me.”

Danse buries his face in the crook of Preston’s neck, silently nodding against him. He turns his head just a little bit, his lips now pressed against Preston’s skin, unmoving at first, then gently kissing. A moment later he is nibbling on Preston’s lip, then hungrily kissing until he reaps a moan from his mouth. His hands slide under the General’s coat in desperate search of warmth, fumbling on the armor’s buckles-- Preston catches his gaze and the Paladin stops.

“As much as I appreciate the direction in this is going-- I need you to stop.” Preston emphasizes breathlessly, “for serious.”

Danse is about to apologize, when Preston takes his hand, gently kisses his knuckles. “Things are pretty crazy right now. I don't want you to do anything you might regret later.”

“I won’t regret this.” Danse's voice is a whisper, but it does not falter. “I've had enough time in the Institute to dwell on lost chances-- I will not lose focus again of the people I hold dear.” 

Warm brown eyes meet Preston’s and he wants to capture this moment for all eternity. Gently holding Danse’s face in his hands, his heart is pounding under the thick armor plate. Danse is right to seize the opportunity for some happiness in this world-- he’s brave, so much braver than Preston-- there’s only one thing he can do to accept this wonderful gift Danse just offered him.

“I don’t want to lose you again.” Preston whispers. “That’s why I need you to slow down. All these months my thoughts were with you, wishing, hoping-... just this morning I woke up again, believing you were gone forever--” His voice breaks and hot tears cloud his vision. This time, it’s Danse’s turn to respond with a soft embrace, slightly rocking them back and forth to console the other as much as himself.

Danse’s arms around him are like an anchor in rough sea he didn’t even want to admit was missing. Tomorrow might be an uncertainty, but here and now is theirs to claim.

“Just be here with me, that’s all.”

-

They sleep not too well, for that, the situation is too unusual.

They also sleep excellently, relishing in the joy every time they wake up next to the other during the night, huddling for just a little more contact, then falling asleep again.

When morning comes, they wake as a well-rested warm knot of intermingled limbs with slightly stiff necks.

“Morning, babe.” Preston beams at him with a wide smile.

“Babe?” Danse chuckles sleepily.

“Yeah, that’s you.” Preston taps Danse’s chest, feeling more chuckles emerge.

“I like it-”

“You do?” Preston blurts out, his heart jumping with joy.

“I do.” Danse smiles and leans in for a kiss.

“It’s amazing to wake up next to you.” Preston exhales and feels his cheeks already glowing.

“Dito.” Danse smiles the most wonderful smile Preston has ever seen. The moment lingers only for a blink before Danse peels himself out of the sheets. “I do not mean to infringe on your duties though... You must be buried in work.” He mumbles, apologetically rubbing his neck.

“Yeah, I am,” the General concedes, “but I still got time to knead that stiff neck of yours.” He gently tugs Danse to sit at the edge of the bed, caressing his skin. “I feel sort of responsible for that.”

If someone had told Preston just twenty hours before that this was how his day would develop, he would have thought it was the most ludicrous lie he had ever heard. And yet here they are, safe and sound, together-- 

_ This is what happiness must feel like _ .

But, there is one thing that lurks in the back of his mind...

“Danse… do you think you can tell me about the past months?”

Preston can feel lungs collapse under his touch. He keeps massaging Danse’s shoulders to give the other man room to answer.

“There isn’t much to tell.” He finally says. “One moment I am scavenging in the ruins, the next I wake up in the Institute, living with synth workers. Everyone there acts like I’m memory wiped, but I’m not.” He sighs, rubs his face. “Eventually, I manage to pass along a message to Nora, tell her about the tunnel to the old Railroad HQ… with that, she helps us all escape.--”

Preston nods invisibly to Danse behind his back. There’s a lot Preston doesn’t understand yet, but there will be time for that, time to talk, time to heal.

“What about you?” Danse asks in a lighter tone, “Did the Minutemen fare well?”

Preston hums in a nondescript way, weighing whether or not it’s a good idea to let Danse in on his bold political plans just yet. “We’re doing alright, really.”

“You still make a lousy liar, Preston.”

Preston breathes a short laugh, then turns serious. “We plan to negotiate an alliance with the Brotherhood.”

“The Brotherhood?” Danse turns his head and looks at him incredulously.

“You’re back, that means- there’s no need to waste time. With the Brotherhood, the Institute can be destroyed. We can argue about ideological purity after the fact.”

Danse stays silent for a long moment. Is it too outrageous a plan? Handing a nuclear arsenal to the Brotherhood? Of course there is a lot of controversy in the upper ranks of the Minutemen about entrusting the Brotherhood with a nuclear arsenal. Many think it’s just replacing one evil with another.

Elder Maxson, leader of the Brotherhood’s East Coast chapter, Maxson who is unbending in his beliefs, blind in his extermination ideology, and who had ordered the execution of his best Paladin without hesitation-- Preston’s heart drops. It’s their only option, yes, but if Danse objects to this plan, there is no way the General could find the heart to follow through with it--

“I want to go with you, Preston.”

“What?”

“When you go to the Prydwen, I am coming with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh the constraints of language. help me, ursula leguin!


	9. Sadness in Goodneighbor

It’s freezing cold inside the stone walls. There’s thick morning fog caught between the sea and the Castle. Deacon hates it. A chipper tune faintly resounds from the radio station. Deacon hates that in particular. The Minutemen, a well-meaning militia until their redneck tendencies inevitably take over. He fucking hates--

Why is he so irritable?

Deacon decides to go for a stroll, check for a dead drop at the usual place in the collapsed diner down the street. It’s a long shot, but to his surprise, there are indeed new orders.

Back at the Castle, Deacon packs up and is about to leave, when he notices Danse and Preston coming from the mess hall. Their faces glow like anything, Danse chuckles at a joke that wasn’t even funny.  _ Lovely couple _ , Deacon thinks, and is greeted with a glare from the General. Danse looks like he means to say something, but walks by instead.

As they pass, it’s on Deacon to turn around and talk at their backs.

“I’m going to Goodneighbor.” The spy reveals to his own surprise. A weird voice inside his head tells him he owes Danse at least that much, even if the Paladin is probably more than happy to get rid of his Railroad shadow.

“Are there synths for a memory wipe?” Danse asks.

“Yeah…”

“I’ll come with you.” 

It’s definitely not how Deacon expected this to go.

“I never had the chance to say goodbye.” Danse explains to a very concerned Preston. “There are many good people among them. Maybe it’s not too late yet.” 

“Then I’ll go with you-”

“No.” Danse interrupts the General, taking his hand in both consolation and resolve. “You have important things to arrange.”

“I hate that you’re right. At least take one of my people with you.”

“Hey.” Deacon interrupts the couple’s quarrel. “I’m the bodyguard, remember? Big Boy will be fine.”

_ Shit, Deacon, why you always gotta make things more complicated _ .

It takes a few words and then it’s all decided. Deacon turns away pretending to fish for a cigarette as the two say their goodbyes.

-

“Why’d you never tell you dug your way into HQ?” 

It’s a conversation starter, a horribly crude one for someone who considers himself a top tier agent. But more often than not, the direct approach works surprisingly well with a straight forward guy like Danse.

Not this time though.

They silently hike along the path, Danse now wearing unsuspicious drifter rags, his face disguised by a flight helmet.

“Why go through the ordeal of digging?”

Still no response. Without consciously intending to, Deacon lags behind and examines the man walking in front of him. A visibly broad built under the wasteland tatters, clear-cut movements like they ought to be, the laser rifle now properly holstered.

They arrive at Boston Common, buildings closing in, paths narrowing down. Deacon relaxes a little bit after leaving behind the open space, only to tense up once again as Danse suddenly stops.

“You first.” He says, pointing at the confined alleyway in front of them.

“Lead the way, big boy.” Deacon tries with a joke, mostly to mask this uneasy feeling living inside of him that whispers:  _ do not turn your back at him _ .

Danse silently stares, it seems, Deacon can’t tell with the helmet obscuring his features. “I don’t like you tailing me.” Danse mutters and yet sets on to walk down the cramped path first. “To think that withholding you information about the Railroad HQ actually made me feel bad.” 

“It did?”

“Yeah it did.” Danse turns around, closing in, suddenly too close, no way out but turn back-- “Believe it or not, some of us actually feel bad when they lie to their friends.” 

“Didn’t know you considered us friends.” 

Danse’s body language is blistering with electricity-- but under all this, there’s something Deacon can’t quite pinpoint.

“So, why did you do it?” A spy knows no tact.

_ If this is an imposter, you are digging your own grave right now, Deacon _ .

With clenched fists, Danse wordlessly walks on.

“You buried all the bodies, is that why you did it?”

_ Maybe you are super dead especially if it’s the real Danse _ .

“That’s a lot of effort just for--”

There is only so much a man can take, synth or human. A fist connects with Deacon’s skull--

“I felt shame, John! Crushing guilt over murdering my own kin! Of course I went back! The least I could do was bury them!--” There’s heavy breathing constrained by the mask, Danse rips it off.

Deacon is on the ground, holding his pulsating ear. He collects his glasses and catches a glimpse of Danse wiping his face before putting the helmet back on. By the time Deacon gets up, the Paladin is already walking on.

-

“Listen.” Deacon tries to catch the Paladin’s attention as they enter the Memory Den in Goodneighbor. To no avail.

If Deacon got sent here on such short notice, there must have been complications. The agent is aware of that, but Danse probably isn’t prepared to expect the worst. “Hey--” He dares to tap the Paladin’s shoulder--

“We have nothing to talk about.” Danse dismisses him and swings the door open.

Doctor Amari meets them in her usual downstairs laboratory, but seems uncomfortable in the presence of the stranger next to the Railroad Agent.

“It’s alright doc, he’s with the family.”

She nods and leads them down the hallway into a small room cramped with beeping instruments and monitors. In the middle is a bed, a person lying in it unconscious.

“Of course she knew the risks.” The doctor explains, “they all do. But there’s always the possibility of a memory wipe going wrong-”

“Oh my god, G5.” Danse dashes through to the bed, carefully grasping for the woman’s hand spiked with an infusion needle. “G5! What happened to you?” His eyes search for answers in the doctor’s face when G5 doesn’t answer.

“The electrical activity in her cerebrum has stopped.”

“What does that mean?” Danse knows, must know, but asks anyway.

“She’s brain dead.”

-

Deacon waits outside the patient’s room by the door, smoking, listening to Danse fall apart. 

_ Dammit _ .

How could he be so careless as to bring Danse along with him? Confront him with all sorts of shit-- There’s nothing Deacon can do. He’s not the friend Danse needs right now, never was, and that’s the truth of that.

_ Fuck _ .

“There were so many things you wanted to do--” It’s Danse’s muffled voice from inside the room, “You believed with all your heart that a memory wipe can’t ever destroy the true essence of a person- you said you were not afraid. You looked forward to one final wipe. You wanted to start your life anew, on your terms, you--” Danse’s voice breaks.

They’re raw, private feelings. Deacon listens to every nuance.

“I still owe you that dance, G5. Remember when you found out my name?” There is a weak chuckle between sobs. “You thought it was funny, you loved dancing. That’s who you were-- Always excited about everything-- You wouldn’t stop asking me questions.” It gets quiet inside the room, and Deacon wonders with a heavy heart whether he should check on Danse, wonders if his presence would be of any help, wonders if he could do anything but to make everything worse.

After some murmured words Deacon can’t make out, Danse appears in the door frame, helmet back on, silently leaving.

-

Deacon can’t find it in himself to follow Danse further around. Even though nobody should be alone in a moment like this-- There’s no time for this anyway.

He needs to arrange long-term life-sustaining measurements for G5, make sure there is no supply shortage for the next dozen synths that will eventually arrive within the next few weeks-- He meets up with Caretaker who’s a nervous wreck like always, worried about the Institute staying so quiet after a massive coup like this. It’s true, so far the dreaded boogeyman has been awfully quiet.

If anybody knows about suspicious movements in Goodneighbor, Hancock’s the address to swing by.

-

“How can anyone think you’re an imposter!” Hancock sounds like he’s laughing the best laugh of his life, almost spilling his glass of whiskey.

To his surprise, Deacon finds Danse sitting in Hancock’s office. “Look at this guy!” The mayor generously points at Danse as he sees Deacon enter, “He’s even so honest as to knock on my door just to remind me he still owes me a favor. Can’t manufacture that!” 

Deacon doesn’t dare to look at Danse. Sitting on a couch, Hancock smirks pleased as pie. “A shame you don’t do chems,” he drawls, “it’d be a pleasure to see all that Brotherhood composure crumble under a few nice hard hits of psychojet.”

Danse stiffly gives his best regards to the mayor and silently passes by Deacon as he leaves the room-- for a moment it’s like Deacon can’t breathe. He clears his throat and asks Hancock for any recent Institute activity in Goodneighbor.

“Nah man, nothing too unusual. I gave your friend the details-- I say friend, but really, the air between the two of you is rather like he’d enjoy snapping ya neck like a twig.”

“Thanks Hancock.”

It takes a quick jog to catch up to Danse as he’s entering Hotel Rexford. Deacon gets them a room for the night, two separate beds, but he does not intend to stay there with him anyway. As the Paladin wordlessly ascends the steps, Deacon stops by the local chem dealer, his hand twitching as he pays up. Heading upstairs, his feet feel heavier with every step.

_ Gotta stay sharp _ .

Deacon settles down to camp in front of the door behind which he can hear Danse restlessly pace around on the creaking wooden floor; the Paladin as always in desperate need of a walk in times of insomnia.

_ Such a Danse thing to do _ .

Of course he’s the real one.

Deacon knows it, knew it the moment he heard him call his name and felt his arms wrap around him. He’s about 99.8% sure, doesn’t get better than that.

Deacon studies the bottle he bought at the dealer’s. It’s the most sugary liquor available, not quite his taste actually. It’s even sweeter than he remembered; last time, it made Danse cheerful and let his cheeks blush, he didn’t even mind Deacon’s weird request when they curled up together despite the hot summer’s night.

Even then, Deacon was scared of his overwhelming urge to trust Danse.

Summer is gone now, though, and the chill outside creeps through every crevice in the walls. Deacons shiver and contemplates whether he should knock and at least ask for a blanket. Before he can settle in for an uncomfortable night, the door opens and a surprised Danse stares down at an awkwardly curled Deacon in the door frame.

“What are you doing.”

“Floor party.”

Deacon meekly toasts at him. With a sudden movement, Danse grabs the bottle and takes a swig.

“You reek of smoke.” Danse says. “Wash yourself up and come to sleep. You need to be rested if you want to help any synths.” And with that, the door closes again.

_ Can’t argue with that logic _ .

When Deacon returns from the downstairs bathroom, he takes a deep breath before knocking on the door. Inside, he finds Danse sitting on one of the two beds, leaning against the wall, the liquor bottle almost empty.

Deacon settles in for the night, hides his pistol within reach-- of course he does. If the wasteland isn’t gonna kill him, his paranoia sure will.

“Afraid I’m going to murder you in your sleep?” A husky voice asks from the other side of the room.

“I mean, I’m not saying that you should, but I wouldn’t even be mad.”

Danse weakly huffs and takes a sip from the bottle. “I guess I forgot how much you distrust everyone. Perhaps I never really got it until now.”

“Most people don’t even endure my bullshit long enough to get to that realization.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe I grew to like you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Of course I am.” The Paladin drinks again, his cheeks glowing in the dim light of the oil lamp. “Dinner.” He lifts the bottle in a sad toast.

Deacon takes that as a hint and tosses over a bundle of dried radstag strips. It hits Danse’s knee and tumbles to the bed. “Sorry.” Deacon mumbles. “Lousy curveball.”

Danse doesn’t react, resting his head on his knees, looking unusually small folded up like this. “I feel sick.” He says in a muffled voice. “When I woke up in the Institute, I thought that’s it. That’s the end. I was willing to give up.” He sniffles, his face hidden. “I thought-- I thought it was the righteous punishment for my sins.”

Deacon feels his throat close up.

“It feels unreal to be back.” Danse says, “it felt unreal there too, but-- I just don’t know anymore.” 

“What happened in the Institute?”

  
  


\---

  
  


Energy conservation is their proclaimed credo, and yet artificial light is ubiquitous day and night. Preventing the human race from social collapse is their noble motive, and yet the surface population is starving from all kinds of deprivation. To have only the best of intentions is what they claim, and yet they only serve themselves.

Smooth cool surfaces all around, pristine white walls hiding cruel secrets.

The Institute.

It’s their lies, these well-intentioned horrendous lies, that make Nora doubt Father. Shaun, her son, who is old enough to be her parent.

They care about each other, there is no way to deny it. There’s this ridiculous bond between them that they only share by blood. Shaun was only a few months old when they took him from her, when they took Nate’s live, and ended Nora’s in a way also when they put her back into cryostasis for another half a century.

And yet, and yet--

Nora tried to influence Shaun’s politics, only with meager success. Then again, his influence on her is undeniable. Teaching her the lesson to get comfortable with sacrificing people like pawns on a playing field.

After all, he appointed her as his successor for a reason.

A decision which wasn’t too well-received with his staff, predictably so. Ayo, head of the SRB, hastening his plans to slowly murder Father with a manufactured disease, less predictably so.

_ Good _ , she thinks.

_ If he pulls the trigger, I don’t have to _ .

One way or another, the Institute won’t be for much longer. Father taught his mother well to sort people into expendable ones and useful ones.

  


The mess hall is empty except for the robotic synth servant at the counter. It must be in the early morning hours, she thinks, fumbling on her pip boy to check for the time as if this information mattered.

“Ma’am.” Out of nowhere, a voice smooth and deadly like a tiger waiting to pounce. It would send shivers down her spine if it wasn’t so awfully familiar.

“X6.” She smiles all the smiles he never gives away. Her expressiveness is what he secretly enjoys about her; it’s one of the few insights about him she gathered despite his otherwise highly controlled mannerisms he takes so much pride in. “Sit down,” she says, “have a tea with me.”

He just stands there for a fleeting second, a towering shadow clad in the thick Courser leathers of the SRB. Dark sunglasses reflect the bright Institute light. 

“Alright, ma’am.” He says and goes to get drinks for both of them at the bar. Having a nice steaming cup of herbal infused water with the Commonwealth’s deadliest assassin never ceases to delight her.

“It’s good to see you, X6. Your friendly face is always a joy to see.” She says, cradling her cup of tea.

“My face is hardly the reason for your bemused expression.” X6 states, not at all affected by her teasing.

She chuckles at his effortless ability to not let things get to him at all. Facade is one thing, but she knows he genuinely does not care what she thinks about his face. “When I see you, I know you got my back. And I smile in anticipation of the lesson we’re about to teach whoever is foolish enough to get in our way.”

“With that, I agree.” He says, the idea of a proud smile on his lips.

“You seem ready for battle very early this morning.”

“I have already returned from a mission,” he says, “recalling unit M7-97. It was easy.”

Nora puts down her cup with an audible clatter. “You did-- wait what, wasn’t that  _ our _ mission?”

“It was.” He says, his attention a laser focus on her. “This morning presented an suitable opportunity to strike, so I did. Any delay would have compromised the mission. Otherwise I would have informed you.”

“You know-- I see-- what I mean, is.” She takes a deep breath. “You shouldn’t have gone alone.”

“I know you have been acquainted with the target. Even more than just that.” His gaze seems to pierce through his glasses as well as herself all the same.

“It’s just-- I would have preferred to be there. To be the one who--”

“Who says the recall code.”

“Yes!” She blurts out. “I’m gonna go,” she jumps up, “he’s in holding behind robotics, yes? I’ll reprogram him myself.”

  
\---

  


“I don’t know what happened.” There’s a long silence, then, Danse begins to talk. About how he woke up in the Institute as M7-97, how he was put to work, how he shared quarters with other synths-- G5, Z1, and all the others who escaped with him. “Have you ever seen a Courser, John?”

“No.”  _ Kelly K., Maven, Beatrice, Ms. Boom--  _ “Only their handiwork,” _ Francis, Roger, Songbird, Mr. Mathers, Tommy Whispers--- _ The switchboard mantra.

“I saw them every day in the Institute. And every day I wondered--” Danse exhales shakily, “Do they know I wasn’t reconditioned? I’d walk by and wonder-- Are they watching me? Will they kill me? Do they test how long I can keep up the charade? I was ready to die in the bunker, but-- I feared death in the Institute. Even though I believed I deserved even worse, I didn’t want to… die.”

-

It’s not fair to anybody, but Deacon is relieved when Danse eventually falls asleep from the alcohol. And yet-  it’s difficult to grasp, for routines are something essentially foreign to Deacon, but sleeping apart from Danse when he’s just an arm’s lengths away in a separate bed feels wrong. Those weeks they travelled together back then made that habit seem like a given.

It’s not.

Deacon stretches his arm into the darkness. Danse’s bed can’t be far, perhaps a few more inches into the dark.

_ Silly _ .

He retreats and lays his head on his hand as if to scold it for reaching out. Deacon had no right to Danse’s story, he had asked anyway. It shouldn’t be him who gets confided in. Him, a spy, a fraud whose sole virtue is to happen to be present.

The old wound in his shoulder begins to tingle as if nerve end are trying to reach out in vain. Annoyed, he flaps his numb arm violently, but stops mid-motion as he hears Danse move in his sleep. He wants to retreat his hand, but can’t--

“Danse?” 

“Yeah?”

“Are you holding my hand?”

“Yeah…”

“There’s something you should know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not too fond of this chapter, but I have to release it into the wild.  
> Thank you all for commenting and leaving kudos, it helps me to keep marching forward <3


	10. Upending Tendency

Some people are a hard read, others are like open books to Deacon. He is convinced Danse falls into the latter category; but for that, the Paladin manages to surprise him too often lately.

Deacon didn’t think it would ever happen again, let alone so fast. For several days now, him and Danse travel the wasteland again-- doing good Railroad work like they used to, working as a team like they used to--

And what’s more, Danse resumed to holding him at night whenever they share a mattress. 

_ Like we used to _ .

Deacon is aware he’s just a cheap substitute, of course. Danse never left any doubt that his actions are solely determined by whatever is best for his set mission, regardless of any personal animosities. And the set mission is to save synths. Danse’s people.

Before they left Goodneighbor, they sent a message with a trader down to the Castle, telling Preston not to expect Danse back so soon; ‘ _ I have to help these people who’ve helped me _ ,’ Danse said, ‘ _ he will understand _ .’

It’s been a smooth run so far; Deacon knows the who and where and how of the operations, Danse provides the needed firepower.

“I don’t like this.” Deacon reads the message of the dead drop. “There’s Institute activity around the Mass Fusion building, and Brotherhood too. That can’t be good.”

Danse stays silent, face covered by the flight helmet.

“Orders are to find out what they’re after. Things could get hot--” Deacon hesitates, “I understand if you wanna bug out on this one.”

“If the Institute is planning something, we have to know what it is.”

  
  


Mass Fusion, one of the tallest skyscrapers in what used to be the financial district of Boston. Before the war, a place of business for an energy provider, now swarming with spies of all the different factions.

From afar, they can hear several vertibirds circling in the evening sky. With every step they take, it’s like Deacon can feel the Paladin’s rising anxiousness-- or perhaps, his own. In the metaphorical waters lurk sharks, armed with less metaphorical plasma rifles, laser pistols, and zero hesitation to shoot on sight.

They are not far from a cozy little stake out point that gives them plain view over the main entrance of the building when they are surprised by gunfire-- Blue flashes of light make and endless number of robotic synth soldiers appear, the Institute obviously no longer concerned about keeping their teleportation technology a secret. Vertibirds drop off Brotherhood Knights in full power armor, desperately trying to fend off their numerous foes with heavy miniguns, only for more bright blue flashes to replace their numbers immediately.

_ Shit _ .

Things are turning hot much quicker than anticipated-- Danse and Deacon manage to reach a barricaded building across the street, watching the battle unfold from the second floor.

“I have to help them!”

“Are you insane? You get caught up between gen 2s and T-60s, you get blasted into particles!”

Danse furiously gestures at the battleground. “Those are fine soldiers dying out there!”

“Yeah, you wanna be one of them?--”

Before Deacon can add anything else, Danse readies his weapon and dashes out to the battle field.

_ Fuck _ .

Hastily, Deacon reaches for the field glasses in his bag-- there is Danse joining the fray from the cover of a car, so far ignored by both hostile parties, shooting down synth infiltrators.

Brotherhood knights emerge from the Mass Fusion building, their armor already badly damaged-- the fight must’ve already been going on for a while.

Luckily, the Brotherhood soldiers are ignoring this synth shooting stranger so far, but another bright blue flash brings more infiltrators, approaching the former Paladin from behind--

_ Shit shit shit _ .

With flying hands Deacon fumbles for his pistol, no time to wish for his scoped sniper rifle when he aims and shoots at the Institute robots-- miss, miss, miss,  _ hit _ \-- it is enough to draw Danse’s attention to the enemies advancing from his blind angle. Deacon aims again, skews his shot-- a direct hit on the car Danse is taking cover behind--  _ that was close _ \-- Danse shoots down the remaining synths with professional accuracy, as Deacon notices the fusion core of the car to burn--

Deacon yells, is dashing out of the building to warn him when the explosion wave rumbles through concrete.

Sometimes, things happen no matter how hard you try to prevent them. Sometimes people get hurt, sometimes people die.

_ Not today _ .

When Deacon arrives down at the street, he sees a Brotherhood power armor with red Paladin markings and a smouldered back, shielding Danse from the explosion.

With the last falling debris, the battle ends. No more blue flashes.

“Wanderer…” Deacon whispers as he approaches.

“It’s not safe here.” Nora snarls at him. 

“Paladin-- Thank you. Again.” Danse says, and despite her helmet Nora seems startled when she recognizes his voice.

“How did you know it was him?” Deacon inquires, feeling only slight shame over switching into spy mode immediately after he finds Danse unharmed.

“I didn’t. But a random helper throwing himself into battle against the Institute can only mean he’s an ally--” She cuts herself off as she notices a knight approaching her,

“Get on your way,  _ now _ .” She hisses at them before facing her subordinate.

“Paladin, ma’am, are you injured?” The knight checks in to find her well, then ogles the strangers with disdain not even her power armor helmet manages to hide. “Who are these civilians?”

“They got caught up in the battle, they will be on their way.”

“And the mission, ma’am?”

Nora turns away, looking up the tall Mass Fusion building. “Let’s hope nobody regrets it.”

-

Deacon curses under the cold when they arrive once again at the same shitty hotel room in Bunker Hill they always crash in. ‘Hotel room’ is an overstatement, it’s a few planks nailed together over an equally drafty hut that doubles as a ‘bar’. Last time they stayed here was back in summer when they had to huddle in order to fit on the mattress together. This time however, they huddle for warmth.

Ticonderoga, with real comfortable beds and relative security is not too far away, but with Danse in tow Deacon finds he doesn’t really want to go there.

_ Who’s having who in tow, though _ .

If anything, the skirmish at Mass Fusion proved that Deacon is even more useless than he expected. Popping a stealth boy and silently skulk off is not an option with a fuming blaster steamrolling along with him. 

Deacon sits cross legged on the mattress, making an effort to clean his pistol.

“Let me do that.” Danse declares, not waiting for an answer before snatching the weapon. Quick practiced hands dissemble it into parts with ease. Deacon watches him without protest. Deacon grew dependent, no point in trying to hide it. Only one thing to do then-

“We need to have some words.”

And for a moment Deacon wishes the other man would still wear his helmet because now Danse’s warm brown eyes pierce through him with undivided attention.

“I appreciate you pitching in with the Railroad, despite having me around.”

Danse nods.

“And I understand,” Deacon continues, “that you still have a sense of responsibility towards the Brotherhood. But as things are right now... that kind of noblesse can quickly prove to be... disadvantageous.”

“What, you want me to watch when the Institute is shooting them down?” 

“No.” Deacon replies decisively, “I want you to think like a soldier. I want you to consider--”

“I’m not picking any fights I can’t handle.”

“Are you really?”

All warmth disappears from the Paladin’s eyes. “I know what I’m risking.”

“It was a close call today. Weaseling myself out of sticky situations is exactly my skillset, but with you--”

“Every hit against the Institute makes the Commonwealth safer for the synths we rescued. Don’t you see that? Why do you care if it also helps the Brotherhood along the way?”

“This is not about the Brotherhood.” Deacon cocks his head to study Danse. “How do you think Preston would feel if anything happened to you?”

“Don’t drag him into that-”

“I won’t have your back.” Deacon blurts out. “I can’t. It’s just-- don’t make me watch you die, okay?”

Danse’s features finally soften. Absentmindedly, he starts fumbling with the dissembled parts in front of him. “I can help you train shooting with your left-”

“I think we should part ways.”

Before Danse can reply, there is frantic knocking on the ramshackle door. “Mr Deacon!” An urgent voice whispers through the cracks. “We need your help, hurry! Please!” Old Man Stockton enters, trying to keep his voice down as he hastily explains. “The package! He managed to hide, but the Institute! They’re onto him! Please help!”

No time to waste, Deacon reflexively reaches for his gun which is in shambles on the floor. Instead armed with Stockton’s rusty pipe pistol, Deacon and Danse set for the described location. They sneak towards a quiet looking office building just outside of town.

A smashed window in the back allows them access, no sign of any Institute activity. The creaking wooden floor betrays their steps-

“Is someone present?” A robotic voice approaches from the next room.

Deacon is about to dive behind some file cabinets, as he sees a humanoid shape in the corner of his eyes. He spins around and is ready to pull the trigger-- a corpse, recent, one of their Railroad Heavies--

“Commencing battle--” The robotic voice dies down as Danse shoots the gen2 synth infiltrator. And with that, every sound flees again, leaving only the building groan in the harsh winter’s cold. Danse nods at Deacon to follow him. The wind is picking up outside, howling through the broken back window. The rooms are dark and long abandoned; no sign of friend or foe. Another trashed infiltrator lies in front of a locked security door. “Hey, it’s us. Railroad.” Deacon murmurs at the gate. “You in there?”

“...yes.” A weak voice from within.

“Can you open the door?”

“No…” The muffled voice replies. “I think one of the terminals locked it…”

“Z1, is that you?” Danse chimes in.

“M7? It’s you! I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Affirmative, Z1. We’ll open the door as soon as possible. Just give us a minute.”

Danse goes to secure the vicinity while Deacon boots up an old dusty terminal, dipping the room in a sickly green color. No password protection. Pre-war folks tended to be sloppy in unexpected places.

A shadow whooshing by?-- 

“Danse?”

“Yeah?” A hushed whisper from behind the desks on the far end of the dark room.

Deacon signs for Danse to check the corner of the room, knowing the other man can see his motions in the light of the monitor. The wooden floor creaks underneath the Paladin’s steps, the sound of a door opening.

“Curious.” A strange voice says, then three bright red flashes of light, clattering of metal crashing to the floor.

“I think we’re clear.” Danse confirms his success, “hold on, I think I found a light switch.”

Only a fraction of the old office lights flicker to life, painting the wide room in dim yellow light. Good thing pre-war government offices tend to have slightly irradiated but at least long living energy supply. Time to get the terminal to unlock that security gate.  _ Let’s see _ .

Deacon senses Danse walking up to him from his 6, and is about to chide him how he shouldn’t try to sneak up on a master spy, but instead decides to impress him by remote opening the door.

“Voilà!” Deacon exclaims triumphantly as the door’s lock clicks open, and turns to smirk at Danse, who is not there, no, there’s a shadow towering over him--

For a split second, time seems to stop before everything happens all at once.

_ Kelly K., Maven, Beatrice... _

The pistol--

_ Ms. Boom, Francis... _

Quick, shoot-- 

_ Roger, Songbird... _

Shoot--

_ Mr. Mathers... _

Just Shoot--

_ Tommy Whispers------ _

When Deacon comes to himself he’s cowering on the floor-- click click click-- pulling a non responsive trigger, bullet holes all over the place. He frantically spins around looking for the threat-- finds Danse, the real Danse, crouching over him, his warm brown eyes sad.

“Where’s the-”

“Gone.” Danse cuts him off. “He took Z1.”

“What--?” Deacon stumbles to his feet, pistol clattering to the floor. He pries open the heavy security door, behind it a dusty storage room, abandoned.

“He got inside and immediately teleported the two of them away.” Danse explains with a trembling voice.

_ No _ .

The dull noise of a fist forcefully connecting with a raw cement wall. 

_ Useless _ .

A thud, and another, again and again, increasingly spiked with moist sticky overtones.

_ Useless stupid hand _ .

Deacon doesn’t feel his skin rip apart, doesn’t feel the blood drip down his curled fingers, doesn’t feel the warmth of Danse’s hand when he catches his fist before the next blow. 

“That won’t bring him back either.” Danse says. “We have to get out of here.”

  
  


\---

  
  


Z1-14, foreman of the tunnel expansion team, loved gardening and was fascinated by the idea of a sky.

Danse remembers him clear as day.

Clean shaved head, unwavering eyes. A precise man in both his looks and his actions. Head of the grand escape plan. Restrained, diligent and brave. Outstanding personality.

  
  


Back in Bunker Hill, they report the sad news to Deacon’s contact. There isn’t much to say. They failed and are lucky enough to have returned alive.

They don’t talk as they return to the inn. Danse sits on the porch outside their room reassembling the 10mm pistol in the moonlight, not minding the stiff winter’s breeze.

Perhaps it’s not just the cold that makes his whole body shiver.

Deacon steps into his field of vision, his bandaged hand dangling as if the whole arm was detached. He flops down next to Danse and clumsily lights a cigarette.

The town is quiet, the small bar downstairs already closed for the night. Danse finishes fixing up the weapon and nudges it over to Deacon.

He nods, holsters the gun and disappears inside.

  
  
  


The next morning, Deacon is gone.

On the mattress lies a familiar worn out book and Danse knows John D won’t return.

Danse tries to talk up Old Man Stockton in the market, but Deacon must’ve left word not to engage with him, the trader acting like they’ve never seen before. So much for helping the Railroad, so much for helping his new brothers and sisters. 

In Goodneighbor, he swings by the Memory Den, only to be denied entry. Doctor Amari won’t let him visit G5, her acting all estranged as well.

That thorough bastard must have made sure to cut all ties to the Railroad for him. 

With nothing left to do, Danse sets for the Castle. It isn’t too far away, and he sure can make himself useful there one way or the other.

  
  


Last time, Preston asked him to slow down.

And right about now, slowing down sounds damn excellent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's it, that's part 2. I'm currently drafting part 3, and as per usual I will write the whole thing before posting, which means probably a two or three months of wait till the next chapter.  
> Thank you a lot for reading! Thanks for all the comments and kudos, honestly I'd give up without this support. Thank u <3

**Author's Note:**

> hey you fancy people, I'm looking for a beta reader! I can also beta read your stuff in return, but please bear in mind that I can't offer much linguistic feedback for English is my second language !


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